


I'll Be Your Best Kept Secret and Your Biggest Mistake

by alexabarton



Series: Deduce My Ruined Heart [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Mycroft, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Dirty Talk, Drug Dealing, Gay Bar, Jealous John, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Drug Addiction, Referenced Drugs Overdose, Teenlock, Top Greg, Top John, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 12:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2581619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time for Sherlock to face up to his secrets and lies, all the sex, drugs and debauchery</p>
<p>Is honesty really the best policy?<br/>Can John stop it all falling apart?<br/>And will Victor Trevor prove to be the biggest mistake of all?</p>
<p>Because some secrets should stay secret.....</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Your Best Kept Secret and Your Biggest Mistake

Unfortunately, for John Watson, when Sherlock had said ‘Do you want to go and see a couple of strippers today?’ this wasn’t at all what he had envisaged. Not that he had any interest whatsoever in watching a bunch of scantily clad females gyrating to generic house music in some dingy club. He had, however, hoped it would be warm, and indoors, not outside freezing his bloody bollocks off in the way only autumn in England could do. A steady stream of drizzly rain soaked through his layers of clothing, t-shirt, hoodie and jacket, wet denim chafing against the chilled skin of his thighs, and as they rounded a corner, an icy wind cut through skin and bone like a knife through butter. He shoved his freezing fingertips deeper into his pockets and jogged a little to catch up with Sherlock’s long-legged, purposeful stride.

The bastard didn’t even look wet. He actually looked like a fucking male model, gliding along the pavement as if it was his own personal catwalk, in a long slate-grey wool coat and thick blue scarf, collar up against the wind. Skinny jeans and Converse poked out underneath, and John thought, slightly stunned as he always was by Sherlock, that it just shouldn’t bloody work, that on anyone else it would look ridiculous, but on Sherlock the effect was pure sex.

He caught up, stretching his legs out to keep pace and Sherlock turned his head to flash him a genuine smile, not the fake kind John had come to recognise as the one he used on Mycroft, Greg, Anderson, in fact just about anyone other than him it would seem. Drizzle had caught in his hair and it glittered there like dewdrops, curls standing out in a fuzzy halo, eyes glowing with excitement and anticipation at the prospect of the morning head.

John moved closer and let his right hand swing down at his side until he felt the faintest brush of skin on skin, warm against cold (how the hell was he staying warm?- John marvelled at Sherlock’s ability to generate copious amounts of body heat for the second time that morning), a tingle running up the length of his arm as Sherlock curled long fingers around his own and squeezed briefly before letting go, so simple and yet so intimate.

Only two hours ago he had been cocooned in soft, velvety warmth, roused into consciousness by steady puffs of warm breath on the back of his neck. It had taken a minute or so to orient himself as he blinked his sleep-blurred eyes, peering at the unfamiliar surroundings. Sherlock’s house. In Sherlock’s bed, naked, no duvet, so why the hell was he so warm? The reason of course, had been the fact that he was completely draped in a Sherlock blanket, squashed on his stomach, face smushed into the pillows, pinned by a surprisingly heavy body draped almost completely over his back, star-fished inelegantly across the bed.

“Sherlock…. _Sherlock_ …”, a muffled grunt was the only response.

He had wriggled his shoulders, shoving up on one side in a futile attempt to dislodge his heavy burden. He needed to piss, badly, his mouth felt like parchment and dehydration made his head pound faintly.

“For fuck’s sake Sherlock, get your dick out of my crack now!”

John groaned in frustration as he realised he had found himself in the rather awkward position, yet again, of having Sherlock’s erection poking at his nether regions in the early hours. The fucking thing was like a heat-seeking missile for god’s sake!

Sherlock yawned, and rolled off his body obligingly, only to curl back up tightly, a long arm scrabbling around for the covers and pulling them up to his chin now that he no longer had a John-shaped hot water bottle.

“Just hurry the fuck up and get back in” he growled from the depths of the pillows as John tiptoed across the room to the bathroom to relieve his bursting bladder and duck his head under the cold tap for a drink.

“There’s a beaker on the side, bring me some while you’re there”

Yes, of course, there was no way he could just get out of bed and do it himself could he? John took another cool mouthful, swilling it around and spitting out. Toothpaste. He squeezed a little onto his index finger and scrubbed around his teeth and gums, just in case.

“Bring that in too, I want to kiss you”

John rolled his eyes.

“I heard that eye roll”

John shook his head, snorting in disbelief, but he filled the glass and grabbed the toothpaste anyway before he padded back across the bedroom floor, carefully dodging last nights discarded clothes, vague grey shapes in the dim morning gloom.

It was early, maybe about six or seven, too early to get up on a Saturday morning, John thought as he placed the glass and tube on the bedside table beside Sherlock and clambered over his prone form, taking the shortcut back to ‘his’ side of the mattress. He scooted under the covers and shuffled backwards until his spine connected with Sherlock’s chest, and a long, surprisingly muscular leg obligingly lifted to cover his own, a long arm clamping around his torso.

Sherlock spoke to the back of his skull.

“Your feet are fucking freezing, I’m wide awake now thanks”

“Sorry” John mumbled sleepily, wriggling to find a more comfortable position and accidently grinding on Sherlock’s cock in the process.

“For god’s sake John, that’s not really helping… Hang on….back in a minute..”

Springs creaked and the mattress lifted, relieved of the extra weight. John felt, rather than heard his return as the mattress dipped again, at the bottom this time, not at his back where he had expected it. A cold puff of air tickled over the hair on his legs as the covers were lifted from below as Sherlock crawled up the bed, cocooned in quilting. He came to rest halfway up.

What the hell was he doing down there?

Without warning he felt a sudden pressure on his arse as a warm pressed palm eased his cheeks apart and something very cold and very metallic made contact with his skin.

He yelped loudly.

“What the fuck Sherlock! That is NOT okay – what did I tell you the other morning about doing sneaky things to me in the general ‘arse’ area?”

Sherlock appeared to give this a great deal of thought before answering with a weary sigh

“Ask first”

The deep voice vibrated close to his skin, tickling over his balls. Damn the fucking lunatic, he was supposed to be annoyed, he was not supposed to be thinking about how nice that felt.

Something looked different, the light in the room was suddenly warmer and John gasped in surprise and realisation.

“Oh my god…you’re shining a torch up my arsehole aren’t you Sherlock?”

“….Maybe…..just checking….you’ll be pleased to know everything looks to be in full working order”

A wild tousled head rose from the depths brandishing what was most definitely a mini Maglite torch, beam flickering across John’s face.

He rubbed his eyes.

“That was a completely insane…. But actually, pretty fucking good idea…. thanks? I think?”

“I’m full of insanely good ideas John, and I might just have another one you might like even better”

Sherlock pushed free of the restrictive covers, exposing them both to the cool morning air.

“Oh god, dare I ask?”

He should have realised that Sherlock was way beyond anything as simple as a good morning snog as he bent his head to gently kiss and lick the inside of John’s thighs with teasing butterfly strokes, leaving cool wet trails on his sensitive skin, blowing softly as John shivered beneath him. John couldn’t stop the moan that escaped his lips, groping down to find soft dark curls. He gripped a handful in his fist and pulled hard as Sherlock gasped arching his long neck. He relinquished his grasp and lay helplessly, panting in shallow huffs of breath as he watched Sherlock crawl up the bed towards him on all fours looking positively predatory, his already hard cock and balls bobbing obscenely beneath him as he moved.

John gulped. What the fuck had he started?

“Playing with fire this morning are we John?”

Sherlock smirked, as he hooked his left leg over John’s torso and straddled his hips, trapping John’s erection under his perfect white arse. He looked down with a groan to see his length poking out from between Sherlock’s balls, frantically fisting the sheets as Sherlock ground his arse in slow teasing circles, running his hands up John’s chest, before mercilessly thumbing his nipples, making him arch up from the bed as his cock throbbed in sympathy.

“Look at you…you look so fucking gorgeous…writhing around like a cheap tart…oh god, I wish I could fuck you again right now”

Sherlock’s deep silky tones vibrated against his throat, sounding as wrecked a he now felt. He grabbed Sherlock’s hips and gripped them tight, the way he knew Sherlock liked, tight enough to hurt before thrusting up and winding his hips, feeling the prickle of pubic hair create delicious friction along his shaft as Sherlock’s balls rubbed against him. His heart pounded in his chest and he heard the rush of blood in his ears as a warm tingling heat slowly travelled down his body, burning in the pit of his stomach. His cheeks felt hot and flushed and small beads of sweat broke out on his brow and upper lip. He wished to god that Sherlock would grab their cocks or something because this was fucking tortuous, a bare minimum of friction.

“Fucking do something you wanker”

He groaned as Sherlock continued with teasingly soft kisses and licks along his neck and jaw, arse sitting frustratingly still on top of him.

“Are you begging me John? -tell me what you want” he raised himself up to look into John’s eyes, pupils blown wide with lust, the only clue he was as much on the edge as John.

“I want your cock, but I’m too fucking sore from last night”

He bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut as Sherlock stroked his thumb firmly down John’s trapped erection, swirling it over the head and catching the leaking beads of precome. He held it out towards John’s face, and feeling thoroughly dirty and desperate he lifted his head from the pillow and sucked at his own bitter fluid hungrily. Sherlock simply stared, open-mouthed, his body giving a gratifying shudder at the suck and pull of John’s tongue on his flesh.

“You are fucking filthy John Watson… I love it!” Sherlock whispered hoarsely as he climbed off John’s lap, releasing the pressure on his cock.

“What are you doing now?”

John was aware of the note of disappointment in his voice at the sudden lack of stimulation, however inadequate it had been, as Sherlock flopped down in front of John, turned onto his side and tugged at John’s arm, urging him to mirror his position, John’s chest pressed to his back.

The last thing John felt like doing was having a cute little cuddle now.

“I’m feeling lazy…fuck me like this John”

Oh god, so that’s what he had in mind. He shook his arm free and made to turn around, the lube and condoms stashed away in Sherlock’s drawer.

“No”

Long fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulling him back in and drawing his fingers up to warm soft lips.

“I want you to come inside me…I want to feel it” he said into their clasped hands.

“Jesus Christ Sherlock…can we do that?...I mean, you said we should use the condoms…”

“It’s fine, I was tested after….” He hesitated. “….well, I got the results back a couple of days ago, it’s all fine….do it John…please”

The thought of coming inside Sherlock’s body made John feel light-headed and shaky, like he’d just gorged on sugar for a week, his pulse racing abnormally fast, unable to process what he was being asked, being allowed to do. He kissed the dip between Sherlock’s shoulder blades reverently, moving up to nip and suck at the soft pale skin of his neck.

“Yes….yes I will” he answered, and Sherlock pressed his face into the pillow barely stifling a moan that could almost have been a sob.

Just lube then. John twisted free of Sherlock’s grip, flipping onto his back and sitting up to rummage in the bedside drawer, his stomach clenching as fumbling fingers made contact with the tube he needed. He lay back down, leaving a little distance between their bodies as he flipped the cap and squirted a generous amount onto shaking fingertips, spreading it down his hot, heavy erection. The cool sensation, intensified without the usual latex barrier, made him suck in a breath, so close to the edge from Sherlock’s slow teasing that he wasn’t sure he would even get his cock in before he shot off.

“Oh god, hurry up John!” Sherlock wriggled impatiently.

“Now who’s squirming around like a needy little bitch?” John teased, bending over to whisper directly into Sherlock’s ear as he dragged his lubed fingers slowly down the crack of Sherlock’s arse and circled around his tight hole in feather-light strokes.

“Ah! Fuck!” Sherlock jerked reflexively, pulling up his left leg to give John easier access, cradling it to his chest, whimpering softly as John continued to work around his entrance, not quite giving him what he wanted…needed.

Sherlock thrust his arse back as John finally pushed the first fingertip inside, totally past caring how slutty he looked, as John added a second and a third, probing and stretching him open as Sherlock pushed against him, fucking himself on John’s hand, reaching down to grip his neglected cock.

“Don’t! Not yet” John growled, seeing what was about to happen. He had an overwhelming urge to call the shots this time, to have Sherlock shivering underneath him, begging John to give him what he craved.

“Tell me what you want” he rasped

“I want your cock…want you to fuck me now…”

Sherlock keened, stretching his arm back to pull at John’s hips, urging him forward, obeying John’s order not to touch himself as a steady trickle of precome painted damp trails on the white cotton sheets. Unable to hold back any longer, John drew the head of his cock down the crack of that perfect arse, finding the still-stretched rim, working himself inside in slow steady pushes.

“Ah god…that’s…fucking hell” he shuddered and shook with the intensity of heat and sheer throbbing pleasure as his foreskin dragged back with each forward movement into Sherlock’s tight, hot, clenching hole. Forehead pressed into Sherlock’s back, panting heavily, he wrapped his arms around his chest and jerked his hips up and back and up again, pushing a stuttering ‘nngh’ from Sherlock’s lungs with each thrust, feet scrabbling for purchase on the rumpled sheets.

“Fuck…John..that’s…oh god let me up” Sherlock twisted beneath him, and John let go, raising himself up as Sherlock turned onto his front, trying desperately not to pull out all the way, fearing he would never get back in again in time. Sherlock struggled onto his hands and knees, spreading his legs wide, and all John could do was gawp at his long slender torso and that incredible arse still deeply impaled on his cock.

“Do it hard and fast John” Sherlock whined, ever impatient and demanding.

Be careful what you wish for, John thought evilly, as he fucked forward roughly now, smirking as Sherlock’s arms gave way slightly with the force of his movement.

It was a game now, he guessed, to see which of them would tip over the edge first, as Sherlock growled,

“Is that all you’ve got John? Fuck me like you mean it”

So, grasping those bony hips to hold him steady, John slammed in hard, skin slapping together with a smack, cock at just the right angle to make Sherlock scream (which he did).

“You fucking bastard, the whole street probably heard that….what will Mycroft think, hearing you buggering his baby brother like this…”

Sherlock hissed, aiming straight for John’s kink button with pinpoint accuracy – of being caught in the act, successfully reminding John who was really in control here, even from the bottom.

“I swear to god Sherlock…I’ll…”

John panted heavily, out of breath and right on the edge. What if someone had heard them? It would be pretty damn obvious what was going on in this room right now.

“You swear what John?....Jesus fuck!...”

There was a brief moment of smug satisfaction when Sherlock was rendered temporarily speechless, as John’s hand curled under his body and finally, finally, wrapped around his cock, already slick, working him in long slow pulls. Sherlock shivered and arched his back, cat-like, and John realised, too late that that had been his plan all along, the sneaky git!

But Sherlock couldn’t leave it there, he had to have the last fucking word.

“And to think, I was so gentle with you last night too….poor little virgin John”

“I’m going to ram you so fucking hard for that Sherlock…”

“Oh please… you won’t last another two seconds… in fact…”

That voice, that ridiculous, deep, arrogant, dismissive voice, still as cool as fuck with a fist on his cock and a cock up his arse. Maybe a gag next time, or stuff something else in his hole, John thought, as he shoved him even further up the bed. Ah god, they were both _right there_ , neither wanting to be the first to give in, and it was the best sex he’d ever had in his life, John thought, coated in sweat, muscles burning, skin on fire, and any second now he would fill this arse so full….

“….do it now John” “Ah fuck”

How the hell did he do that, his fevered brain supplied as his body convulsed on command, and he came, pushed deep inside, as his cock pulsed out it’s warm viscous load. He could feel it this time, every contraction of Sherlock’s body, quivering around him, and the liquid heat surrounding him….his own liquid heat.

He pulled back a little to look down at his softening cock, still sheathed inside Sherlock’s body and drew a shuddering breath…his own come was leaking out, dribbling down his shaft, and down Sherlock’s balls, thick and creamy-white.

“Christ Sherlock…I wish you could see this”

Sherlock could only groan in response, finally robbed of words, desperate now for his own release. John pulled out slowly, releasing another stream of sticky semen, oh god, he just had to touch…had to see…

He dimly registered Sherlock, patience finally worn thin, bring a long, pale hand to his aching groin, stroking slowly down his length with a shivering groan.

No, that was not how it was going to go, not this time, now it was John’s turn.

John reached forward, and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, stilling his hand

“Don’t touch it. I’m not done yet”

Sherlock moaned incoherently into the pillows, hands clenched into fists at his sides, surprisingly compliant and still. Buoyed with newfound confidence and a flash of evil inspiration, John decided that payback was due.

Carefully, he pressed a full three fingers, where his cock had withdrawn, slipping smoothly inside Sherlock’s still-stretched hole, hot and slick with come, fucking in and out relentlessly, as Sherlock ground back frantically. John felt his way inside, until he found what he sought, rubbing merciless teasing strokes over the sensitive nub, counting two, three, four, five, watching the tremors grow, spreading up Sherlock’s shaking thighs and trembling body, satisfied as Sherlock shook and gasped.

He had him now, he was done, no more mister smart arse.

One final push and Sherlock unravelled completely, coming hard, cock untouched, calling forth every expletive under the sun ending with a plaintive sob of ‘John…John…’ John curled his body over the crouched form beneath him, long arms pulling him in close, as he held him tightly through it.

“You do realise we will kill each other if we keep this up” Sherlock gasped when he could finally breathe without difficulty, collapsing forward fully onto the bed, pulling John down with him as they smeared the already filthy sheets.

“You mean it’s not always like that …for you?” John answered, stuck between sarcasm and genuine curiosity. Surely Sherlock’s….much greater…experience, would find John a bit…unpractised and clumsy in his attempts?

“Not even close, where the hell did you learn to do that, how did you know I would….”

“What? Shoot off like a garden hose?”

“Nicely put John….true though….fucking hell” Sherlock laughed, a deep throaty chuckle.

“Just naturally gifted in the bedroom department I guess” John shrugged, feigning nonchalance, while feeling about ten feet tall.

“Lucky old me” Sherlock smirked

“Yes, so don’t you go forgetting what I just did to you, you arse”.

“Believe me I couldn’t if I tried” said Sherlock, squirming slightly, “Christ John, how much did you actually put up there, I can still feel it” he groaned.

“We are….. truly disgusting”

“Hmmm” Sherlock chuckled low and soft as they lay face to face now, blinking lazily at each other in the brightening light, utterly wrecked and debauched.

“Hungry?” John asked hopefully, ravenous now in a different way, not expecting a positive response. Sherlock’s eating habits, he had noticed, seemed erratic at best.

“Not really” (no surprise there then)

“I am dying for a cigarette though, and before you say another damn word, it’s my fucking room and I think I just earned it for that quite spectacular performance, don’t you?”

(and just like that mister smart-arse is back)

Sherlock tried for a challenging glare, ruining it with a self-satisfied grin.

“So, you can go down without me, we’ve got a load of things to do today and I can tell you’re an absolute fucking nightmare when you’re hungry”

Well, you’re not wrong there, thought John. His shortness of his temper when deprived of food was legendary.

After a quick shower that predictably turned into more of a snog and grope than a wash and scrub (apparently inevitable following any period of time spent in close proximity, naked), John tiptoed back across the landing to the unused guest room for his clean things, ready to die of embarrassment should Mycroft appear. He was sure it was obvious they had fucked last night, and even more obvious what they had done this morning after the noise they had just made, but he could hope for a tactical avoidance, couldn’t he?

Running the gauntlet of the Holmes family kitchen would be even more of a trial by fire, John thought, hoping to execute a quick smash and grab, bring something back up here and suffer the stench of smoke, anything to avoid Mycroft’s knowing smirk and penetrating gaze.

(Oh god, I bet he even knows who was top).

He tiptoed back across the landing unseen. Sherlock stood in the middle of his room, oblivious to John’s inner turmoil, uncombed hair a wild tangle, still naked to the waist. His tight skinny jeans were faded and grey with age and wear, hanging open to reveal a sharp jut of pelvic bone and dark thatch of wiry hair, no pants. John stared, wide-eyed at this glorious sight – How the hell was he supposed to function today knowing just what that bastard had going on under that denim, or rather, not going on, as in – no fucking pants!

( He really was completely shameless).

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he thumbed through his phone with his right hand, flipping back and forwards compulsively. He raised a cigarette to his lips with his left, sucking in his cheeks to drag deeply as he inhaled, holding the smoke in his lungs before tilting his head to the side a little to exhale. He rubbed his left thumb absently at the corner of his mouth, cigarette still poised between his fingertips.

It really shouldn’t look so fucking sexy, John thought, as the urge to roughly shove Sherlock back down on the bed overwhelmed him, to mess up those curls a bit more and slide his hands down the back of those open jeans….

“When you’ve quite finished mentally shagging me again, could you ask Greg something for me?” Sherlock drawled without looking up.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, what do you want me to ask?” he jolted out of his fantasy, and mentally gave himself a shake (have you no self-control anymore for fuck’s sake? – where Sherlock is concerned, apparently not)

“I need his guitar from the back of the van….if he expects me to work on some new riffs for him I need a fucking six string”

“How do you know he’ll even be downstairs?”

“Didn’t you hear him walk by? It was about half an hour ago I think, you had your fingers up my arse at the time – bit distracted were you? He takes approximately forty-seven minutes over breakfast, longer on a day off, less if Mycroft already left for work, which he hasn’t yet, and before you ask, yes, I can guarantee they both heard you banging my brains out earlier, so minimum eye contact is recommended for your own personal safety”.

The words tumbled out with barely a pause for breath. John turned to leave, thinking absently that it felt like a dismissal (there really wasn’t anything to add after that now was there?) as Sherlock typed out a text one-handed.

He was almost at the foot of the stairs before he realised – Sherlock hadn’t once looked up from his phone.

~*~

“Fun evening was it then John?”

Greg Lestrade leant against the kitchen counter, slowly sipping at a hot fragrant coffee as John sidled in through the door, his chocolate brown eyes twinkling mischievously. John didn’t know what would be more excruciating right now, Mycroft’s knowing sarcasm or Greg’s outright piss-talking.

John tried to imagine how he would feel if faced with the person who he’d heard fucking his sister the night before – God no! Not Mycroft, definitely not Mycroft, and anyway, there was always the slim possibility that Sherlock was wrong.

Greg saw the look of undisguised panic flicker across his face.

“Relax for fuck’s sake, I’m not in uniform, and it’s not as if I haven’t twatted a few toffee-nosed gits in my time you know? Anyway, I hear the fucker had it coming all night, I’m only surprised Sherlock didn’t get one in first, you wouldn’t think it to look at the skinny git, but he’s like a fucking rabid dog in a fight. Pray you never witness that mind, because it ain’t pretty”.

(Not the awkward sex-talk then) John visibly relaxed.

“Does he get in that sort of trouble a lot then?” John asked, moving fully into the room to where Greg indicated an array of cereal, bread and jam. He took a bowl and filled it with a generous helping of coco-pops (who the hell would eat coco-pops in this house? Mycroft?)

“You’ve seen him in action, tongue like a whip, ‘ Mr I don’t give a shit’….what do you think?”

(Yeah, that bruise on his face probably wasn’t the first)

“He’s not that bad….is he?”

“Not to you maybe, and believe me, none of us have a fucking clue why that is yet – no offence mate – but the rest of the general population? Treats them like shit on his shoe, mostly”

Was John missing something here? He should be bristling with anger at Greg’s words as he had done with Sebastian’s sniping last night, but the tone was completely at odds with the context, it was matter- of- fact, and…amused. Greg was…fond of Sherlock?

“But you like him anyway”.

It was a statement rather than a question. Greg grinned broadly.

“Yeah, he’s alright, for an irritating little wanker, once you cut through all his bullshit. He just needs a firm hand I reckon….think you might be just the man for the job John”he smirked into his cup.

“Yeah, yeah, very funny mate” John pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, scarlet with embarrassment. (so, it was the sex-talk after all – bonus points to Sherlock).

Greg was apparently enjoying his moment of torment.

“The last one to squeeze a noise like that out of Sherlock ended up in A&E, fuck, I wish I was eighteen again”.

“Enough…please!...just kill me right now, it’d be kinder”

“Hey, take it as a compliment and run with it, god knows it’s been a long time coming”

It was easier after that, it couldn’t get much worse after all, as John ate his cereal and Greg sipped more coffee, and Greg just laughed when he finally remembered to ask about the guitar.

“Bollocks! You do know he could do it all in his head, don’t you? He doesn’t actually need a fucking guitar at all – he’s just being an awkward little shit – no change there then I guess. Look, tell him I’ll leave it in the hall before I drive off, but I can guarantee he won’t touch it though”

Greg winked…. “at least not until _you_ say he can…right?”

“Okay, that’s it, I’m leaving now, bye!”

John dumped his dish and bolted from the room.

Much to his disappointment, Sherlock was dressed and ready on his return, winding a thick blue scarf around his neck before retrieving a long charcoal grey coat from his huge wardrobe.

“It’s cold today John, better wrap up warm”

“Where are we going exactly, you never said….I only heard ‘strippers’ then I sort of zoned out after that”

“Ah yes, very amusing, unless of course I was referring to strippers of the male variety, although I very much doubt ‘The Kitty Club’ would cater to the hen-party crowd John”

“Oh I dunno, I think my sister would disagree…Haven’t you heard of lesbians Sherlock?”

He was rewarded, for that little comment with a special Sherlock, withering glare, the type to make flowers wilt and strip paint from walls, but whatever effect it normally had on mere mortals, John just laughed.

“You do know how ridiculous you look when you do ‘the face’ don’t you?”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, his attempt to assert his superiority thwarted by a tiny blond midget in a jumper. He caught John’s wrists instead and pulled him in, bending down to kiss him roughly, tongue hot and insistent and perfect, kissing him like he wanted to climb inside his skin. He yanked John’s arms around his body, underneath the heavy wool, placing John’s hands on his arse and pressing down firmly.

“Just remember this John”

~*~

Yes, he remembered……how the heat of Sherlock’s skin was still branded into his palms, even as the chill damp air seeped into his bones.

With every step towards their destination the landscape changed. Town houses and tree- lined avenues gave way to endless terraced rows, not a single house in the street the same, marking the passage of time and ownership. Smart boutiques and bijou coffee houses became greasy-spoon cafes and charity shops, shabby shop-fronts swirling with detritus as the wind whipped up yesterday’s news and discarded plastic carrier bags.

They picked their way carefully along graffiti lined alleys, and cracked, uneven pavements, dodging dog shit, faces screwed against the biting breeze.

“Is it far now?” John called out, just wanting to break the uneasy silence that had settled between them minutes earlier.

Sherlock was lost, not literally, John knew, but somewhere deep inside his own head.

“Hmm? No, not very, here in fact”

Sherlock came back to himself as they rounded another corner, now deep in the heart of South London. They had taxied only part of the way, completing the rest of the journey on foot, for what, to John, felt like hours, but he could see why Sherlock had insisted, two teenagers in a black cab too conspicuous in an area like this.

The Powell Estate stood stark and grey against the bleak autumn sky, a looming array of decaying monolithic monstrosities in concrete and glass. An ode to architectural folly, ugly and broken ahead of its time, home to those who’d slipped between the cracks of society, a sub-culture of its own.

John gazed uneasily at their surroundings, at an abandoned car, newly burnt out, probably last night, little kids, no older than seven or eight poking in the wreckage with sticks, a play area, more mud than grass, tyre swings wound tight around the top of the frame out of reach, bored looking teenage girls in a group smoking, one of them pausing to shout expletives at a toddler splashing in a muddy puddle and the horror as he realised she was the kids mother, a burgeoning waistline signalling another on the way.

It was a world away from the sleepy town of his childhood where boredom meant sitting round at a friends’ house drinking cheap two litre bottles of cider and playing x-box all day, not twocking cars, taking drugs, and getting underage girls pregnant. What the hell must Sherlock think about all this?

Sherlock was as unreadable as ever and if John had to guess he would go for ‘bored’ or ‘unfazed’ as his eyes swept over the scene before them, taking in everything but reacting to nothing, at least as far as John could tell. This was so far away from Sherlock’s world of designer labels, private schools and dinner parties which probably cost more than a week’s wages to most of these people, so how could they possibly do this without attracting a whole lot of the wrong sort of attention?.

John’s stomach clenched with anticipation. The answer appeared before him like a magic trick. Right before his eyes Sherlock began to transform, his posture becoming more slouchy and loose, sharp angles softened, the hard set of his features slackened, face open and relaxed, sharp laser eyes dulled becoming soft and unfocused. He loosened off his scarf and unbuttoned his coat, folding down the collar despite the cold, hands carelessly stuffed in the pockets, scuffing his feet along the ground as he walked. The whole effect was quite frankly fucking terrifying, John thought, as Sherlock completed the transformation by clamping a cigarette between his lips, cupping his hand to light up in the middle of the street.

“Try and look a little less like a deer in the headlights John for fuck’s sake” he hissed, in his normal Sherlock voice thank god, as John tried to capture some of the same attitude, irritated at his own naivety.

They walked along the outskirts of the playground, barely warranting a glance from the group of girls, then across a narrow strip of scrubland to a tarmacked courtyard, ground marked out for parking spaces, weeds growing through the cracks, to finally stand in front of the correct block of flats.

“Flat number forty- two, Elsa Reay and Kate Warren” Sherlock said, dropping his finished cigarette on the ground and grinding the butt into the concrete with his toe.

“Both ‘dancers’, treated for cuts and abrasions on Tuesday night after an altercation at the club, Kate was x-rayed for a possible broken ankle, just a sprain though, CCTV footage poor quality, unable to make a positive i.d. from police records, nothing to link the two men to the club, hadn’t been seen there before apparently, the fight occurred in a ‘private’ area, so few witnesses, police inclined to drop any further investigation…. what do you think?”

“Me? Er, someone trying to get to Frank Hudson and he wasn’t there maybe?”

“Oh I think our Mr Hudson knew exactly who they were, they may even have been invited, and I think our two ladies know who they were too. Private area? Use your imagination John, this is a strip club and these girls are there to provide the ‘entertainment’, a few ‘optional extras’ so to speak?”

“Do you think Mrs Hudson knows?” John asked, hoping fervently that she didn’t.

“About the extended services? Well if she didn’t know before Tuesday, she certainly does now, that’s why he keeps her away from the place in general, she wasn’t meant to be there that night, or any night really, the manager panicked”.

“So why did we need to come here, why not just go and see Mrs Hudson?”

“Again, she’s never at the club, a sleeping partner she said, we can find out much more here, believe me, and if someone is planning a hit, we need solid evidence”

“But why would they even talk to us if they wouldn’t talk to the police?”

“ Ah good, you think they’re hiding something too! They may tell us nothing, but it’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s eyes were incandescent, brain firing on all cylinders now, pulling John along in his wake.

“Shall we?”

He yanked open the heavy outside door, no intercom in a place like this, and gestured John through to the stairwell.

“The stairs I think, that lift stinks of piss” and without waiting for an answer he bounded ahead, taking three stairs at a time with his long rangy stride, John struggling after, lungs burning and thighs screaming.

Flat 42 was just as shabby and depressing as the rest from the outside, peeling red paint on the rotted wooden door, and a line of faded washing strung haphazardly across the walkway. John ducked his head to avoid knickers and jeans as Sherlock rapped loudly, pressing an ancient looking doorbell for good measure.

Normal Sherlock disappeared again, this time becoming something twitchy and nervous, eyes darting about furtively, body wracked with barely concealed tremors, looking every inch the hopeless junkie, deathly pale and malnourished. John felt his blood run cold. Sherlock must have heard the sharp intake of breath, as he stole a glance and winked, flashing a brief smirk before dropping back into character, it was the single most disturbing thing John had ever witnessed – how the hell did he do that?

“Who the fuck are you?”

The door opened abruptly, revealing a nightmare in a pink velour tracksuit who glared at them angrily, her gaze settling on Sherlock, propping himself lazily against the door frame.

“Marcus Hunt”

Sherlock stuttered out the name in a voice pitched much higher than his usual deep vibrating tones. He fidgeted in his pockets, ran a nervous hand through his hair and over his face in a gesture of agitation.

“Who? What the fuck are you on about?”

Good question, thought John, and more to the point, what was the actual plan, because now they were here it seemed less and less likely that this would bloody well work.

“Do you know where I can find him?” Sherlock tried again “He still works out of your club, doesn’t he? That bloke on the door said he’s a friend of yours, I need to see him, today”

She eyed him warily.

“I’ll bloody kill that bloody Glen for giving my address to Mark’s fucking smackheads” she said, more to herself than to them,

“Oi, Kate, you got Mark’s number?” she called back over her shoulder, “Glen’s only gone and sent one of Mark’s druggies round here, stupid git”

“It isn’t on your phone Elsa, I’ve just checked” Kate appeared in the background, long red hair tied back in a ponytail, a simple jeans and t-shirt, she looked like a student not a stripper, John thought, although what the hell did he know?

“Nah, not on me phone, in the book, off the record, you know? Listen mate (she turned back to Sherlock), Mark will be round here in about half an hour anyway, how much you looking at?”

“Fifty” Sherlock mumbled as he rummaged in his pocket to produce the cash for inspection.

Elsa regarded him thoughtfully, “Okay, look, you can wait here, god knows Mark’ll kill me if I turn regulars away, but don’t come round here again, this is a one- time only thing”.

Hang on, what the fuck was this? John could only stare in consternation, aware that his mouth was hanging open slightly. Since when had asking a couple of girls a few questions turned into buying fifty quids worth of illegal substances from god knows who, he would kill Sherlock for this, the mad idiot. Maybe that was why he conveniently hadn’t mentioned it, because he knew fine well John would go bloody apeshit, the dick!

Sherlock resolutely ignored all of John’s attempts to catch his attention and merely nodded his gratitude as Elsa opened the door wider, ushering them through into the flat. When compared to the surroundings, it wasn’t as bad as John had thought, small, yes, but relatively clean and tidy, an eclectic mix of styles representing the two very different occupants, one bright and brash the other more muted, almost bohemian in style, no prizes for guessing which one Elsa was.

Under the guise of the twitchy addict Sherlock’s eyes darted to and fro taking in every detail of the small flat, and it’s occupants, but John could practically see the cogs whirring inside his brain as he digested and assimilated the information before him, then turning his attention fully to the two bemused occupants. Elsa was short and curvaceous in stature, bleach-blonde hair about three weeks regrowth, various minor cuts and abrasions to the face and neck, also her hands. This much John could see for himself, but Sherlock must have found something else, as a brief smile of satisfaction ghosted across his lips.

Kate, who still hovered uncertainly in the background was a different story altogether. It was obvious she was almost as much a fish out of water as John was, a tall pretty, middle class girl, understated and immaculate, effortlessly pretty in a plain white t-shirt and jeans, a complete anomaly within these surroundings, it just didn’t fit, he frowned. She noticed his puzzled expression and smiled tentatively.

“Everything okay? You look a bit confused?”

“Er, yeah sorry, just…if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t exactly look like a stripper, more a student maybe?”

He caught Sherlock scowling at him from the corner of his eye, and felt a faint flush slowly creeping up his neck towards his face. She gave a small resigned laugh.

“You’re not all wrong, I am a trained dancer though, and I am a student, a student without financial support, so you know…it pays the bills”

“Oh god sorry, It’s none of my business really, you don’t have to explain or anything”

“Yeah well” Elsa interrupted “Little miss fancy knickers gets more fucking tips than the rest of us put together some nights, so don’t go feeling all sorry for her, lucky cow” she produced a battered pack of cigarettes from her pocket, offering them round, Sherlock pulled one out and let it hang between his lips, quirking a brow at John.

“Why live here though? Why not in student halls? It can’t be any more expensive than here?”

“The unsociable hours and stuff?”

It was more a question than an answer but John decided not to push it, the girl was embarrassed enough. Sherlock however, had no such qualms when it came to pushing the boundaries of socially acceptable behaviour.

“You’re here, because you don’t want to be found, you could be traced too easily in official student accommodation…. no financial support? A family dispute I would guess, you’ve been cut off, you are obviously privately educated so money was never an issue until now, so they don’t approve of ….not your job, that came later, a relationship then…a girl…you have a female lover and your family doesn’t approve”

“Oh my god, how did you know all that? I mean, you’re right, but….I don’t understand”

“Hey, don’t worry about that, no-one understands how the fuck he does it, it’s like a fucking superpower or something”

John grinned and she smiled back, not pissed off then , good. (Sherlock you are brilliant, mad, but brilliant).

“Just tell me one thing though, how did you know I had a girlfriend?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock looked genuinely stunned as if this was the most stupid thing he had ever been asked, “John is ridiculously gorgeous and you haven’t shown the slightest bit of interest in him at all, your friend on the other hand is practically salivating” he turned to Elsa “Don’t waste your time, he’s gay and he’s mine, besides, aren’t you seeing Marcus Hunt?”

John didn’t know quite whether to feel mortified or impressed, the girls however, seemed to find the entire thing hilarious.

“Oh my god, my girlfriend would love you, you’re both adorable”

Sherlock bristled at what he considered to be the grossest insult, but thankfully, to John’s relief, opted to take advantage of their newly won rapport and get to the crux of why they were really there.

“I tried to catch Marcus down the club Tuesday night, but the place was fucking crawling with police cars, what the hell was all that about?” he asked , all wide-eyed innocence, slipping into what John could only imagine was gay-best-friend mode.

“Just some drunk idiots getting a bit lairy” Elsa shrugged

“But it looks like you got caught up in it a bit, I bet it was fucking terrifying…I mean, look at your face, the bastards”

“Yeah well, Frank’s boys sorted it out, they shouldn’t come in to our club like they own the place then, should they?”

“Frank the owner? So did he know who they were? That’s awful” Sherlock looked convincingly indignant and concerned on her behalf.

“Yeah well, Frank’s going places, you know? And when someone is doing well, people line up to knock them down don’t they?”

Elsa finished her cigarette, stubbing it out on the side of a withered cactus.

“Did you know who they were then? I heard a rumour Doug Miller and his sons were trying to move in round that way?”

Elsa visibly whitened at the name. John was confused again, he didn’t have a clue what wild tangent Sherlock had gone off on now, but whatever it was, he seemed to have struck gold.

“Don’t know where the fuck you heard that fairytale, nah, just had a few too many, isn’t that right Kate” she shot her friend a pleading look from across the room, backtracking now from her previous words (back to don’t know, won’t say)

“Ah well, my mistake” Sherlock shrugged and drew a lighter from his pocket, igniting the cigarette and taking a long, leisurely drag. He looked smugly satisfied, this obviously meant something to him.

Kate was spared any further involvement in the conversation by the sound of a key turning in the lock, the door opening wide to reveal a tall, wide-set man with close-cropped red hair, dressed for the gym in sweat pants, vest and sports jacket. He rattled a set of car keys in his left hand, gesturing to Elsa, ignoring Sherlock and John.

“You ready love?”

“Yeah…oh, this one here wants a fifty” she jerked a thumb at Sherlock who sat at the kitchen table looking twitchy and drawn again, fidgeting nervously in his coat pocket.

“Fucking Glen again?” Marcus huffed in annoyance, letting a large gym bag drop from his shoulder onto the kitchen floor with a thud.

“What’s your poison then kid, uppers or downers?” he asked with a sigh

“Just coke” Sherlock muttered, shooting John a wary glance as Glen rummaged in an inner compartment.

“Here you go then, my very finest … and don’t go shoving this up all at once, I don’t cut with crap, you got that?” Sherlock nodded mutely, taking the proferred drugs, shoving them into an empty cigarette packet then into the depths of his coat.

“Hey, just watch him with that, looks like he’s well in need of a hit and I don’t want an o.d on my conscience okay?” he glared at John

“Er…yeah, okay” John stammered, completely out of his depth at this point.

“And next time it’s club only, I don’t want the girls involved, not even if you’re fucking desperate”.

Sherlock pushed up from the table with the scrape of a chair

“Thanks for your time ladies, Marcus, it’s been…illuminating”

~*~

“Would you mind telling me why the hell we are currently in possession of fifty quids worth of fucking cocaine Sherlock?” John hissed as they made their way down the staircase and back out into the freezing air.

He was back to his usual self now, arrogant and self-assured, coat buttoned and collar popped.

“Had to maintain the act John, a sudden change of mind may have aroused suspicion, especially after Elsa’s little slip”

“And what was that exactly?”

“Her sudden change of heart at the mention of Doug Miller of course, don’t you see John? People don’t like telling you things, but they love to contradict you. If I’m right, they were threatened into silence that night by people who knew Frank and knew their secrets too”

“Secrets? They’re just strippers, what could they have over them?”

“I’m not sure about Kate yet, but Elsa – she has a child, slight softness around the midriff which has nothing to do with weight gain and everything to do with childbirth, plus there were several pictures of babies around the flat, the same baby actually, and a folded buggy in the hall, don’t you notice anything John, and I’ll guarantee that Marcus Hunt is not the father, that honour I believe, goes to Frank Hudson”

“You have got to be fucking joking” John gasped.

“Nope…and I don’t think she’s the only one…our Frank’s been sticking his hand in the honey pot, or his dick, actually” Sherlock flashed a mega-watt smile.

“And how did you know about that Marcus bloke before we went in?”

“He was named as next of kin on the incident report, no occupation listed, checked him against police records, they really should tighten their security, drives a very expensive BMW but unemployed, I remember seeing a car like that the last time I passed there, it sort of stands out, but he’s not an employee or partner in the club , so he must be involved in other club ‘dealings’ so to speak – just a stroke of luck he was due to turn up, gave our story more credibility, might not have made it through the door otherwise”

“You are amazing, do you know that?, no don’t answer, I know you do you arrogant prick”

“And you John Watson, are a marvel yourself, with the sweet little innocent – ‘if you don’t mind me saying lovely lady, you can’t possibly take your clothes off and dry hump old pervs for a living’ routine, I would be genuinely worried if I didn’t already know how much you love my cock. It’s very seductive you know”

They nudged shoulders playfully, still on open ground, pity, John thought, as he fantasised about pushing Sherlock roughly up against something, anything, and snogging the snark right out of his sarcastic, incredible mouth.

“What now then?” John asked instead, hoping it involved somewhere warm and Sherlock sans clothes again, because you could never actually have too much of that in his opinion.

“Well, tonight John Watson, you are taking me out for a drink, several drinks probably…I plan on getting absolutely smashed for a change”

“Like as in a Saturday night date night?”

“If you like, or a sticking our noses where they’re probably not wanted night, to be precise, with alcohol, lots and lots of alcohol and quite likely some messy drunk sex in a public place”

“Ah, and they say romance is dead…as long as I don’t have to hold your hair back off your face while you puke up all over the place”

John wondered when the hell his life took this turn for the insane, and why exactly he was completely okay with that.

“Hey, you’re only seventeen, how are you going to get in anywhere…you won’t be with the band this time?”

“Really John, you do underestimate me, a minor detail” Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically as he extracted a perfectly laminated, perfectly authentic looking drivers licence from the inner recesses of his coat, waving it mockingly in front of John’s face.

“Have you passed your test then?”

“No, not yet”

“Please god, don’t tell me you use this to actually illegally drive cars too”

“Okay then, I won’t tell you” Sherlock smirked

“Oh god, don’t look at me like that John, only in an emergency, and that night when Greg and the rest of the band got pissed at a twenty first birthday gig, and I was the only one capable of driving us home. I’m a very good driver actually, and I am old enough, I just haven’t passed my test and I’m two years younger than it says on here”

“You should come with a government health warning Sherlock, do you know that?”

“I think Mycroft could probably arrange that actually…..’Sherlock Holmes, prolonged exposure can lead to death or serious injury”

“I would laugh, but there’s actually an element of truth in there isn’t there?”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into that genuine smile that made John’s breath catch in his chest, and his stomach do an embarrassing flip. He could do this forever, he thought, walk on the edge with this beautiful, crazy human being, and the thought was fucking terrifying.

They rounded a corner which led back through the alley to the high street and Sherlock stopped abruptly, spinning John around to face him.

“Listen, I want you to stay again tonight….at my house…with me, obviously…please?” he looked adorably nervous and uncertain for once, eyes searching John’s face for any signs of doubt or reluctance. As if there would be any chance at all that he would say no, John thought.

“Well, seeing as I left a bag full of my worldly possessions there this morning, how could I say no? I might even be persuaded to let you top again if you behave yourself tonight."

Sherlock’s eyes darkened at these words, and he slowly reached out to cup John’s chin gently, running his thumb lightly over his bottom lip, studying every detail of his face, as if committing the whole to memory, he leant forward, mouth teasingly within reach until John, unable to hold back, ran the tip of his tongue along the seam until he parted his lips with a soft moan. Gruff voices sounded, close by, and he snatched his hand back, stepping away reluctantly, as the men came into view.

“Just….I’ll come to yours at eight, I have some stuff to do this afternoon, shouldn’t take long so…see you later?” Sherlock bit nervously at his bottom lip, holding the soft flesh with his canine.

“Of course, definitely” John shoved his hands down into his pockets felling inexplicably awkward. Sherlock turned to go.

“Later….eight, remember?” he called over his shoulder, before disappearing out of sight.

~*~

Mycroft Holmes stood with his back to the bedroom door, winding a grey silk tie around his graceful neck with irritated, jerky movements, a sure sign of terrible night’s sleep.

The reason, at least initially, had been what was undeniably a rather vocal and apparently, extremely energetic example of sexual gymnastics from Sherlock and John, before he had thankfully discovered the whereabouts of a forgotten pair of airline earplugs from his latest flight. Unfortunately, at some point during the night, he had become unplugged, so to speak, resulting in a prolonged and unpleasant aural assault in the early hours of this morning. Greg, of course had found the entire episode hilarious, laughing in disbelief that they were ‘going at it again’ and marvelling at the stamina and impressively brief refractory period of the average teenage boy. This was not something Mycroft wished to dwell on considering one of the teenage boys in question happened to be his own little brother.

He was inclined to let the matter pass without further comment in the spirit of fraternal harmony, as Sherlock’ he guessed had made as much noise as possible so as to be particularly provocative, and John would have merely followed where he led, Mycroft presumed, as last night’s impressive display of loyalty had demonstrated. Perhaps his brother had chosen wisely for once, or had, as was more likely the case, stumbled quite by accident upon a diamond in the rough. One could only hope that Sherlock could resist his ever present compulsion to self-destruct.

Mycroft sighed impatiently as he unwound the silk material to begin the task again. He had hoped for a more relaxed day than usual, a late brunch perhaps, a walk by the river or through Regent’s Park, but the work of the British Government did not recognise such luxuries as ‘free time’, and besides, he had received some news of a very personal and extremely worrying nature.

The bedroom door creaked open on old tarnished hinges, momentarily breaking through his introspective thoughts, the cool puff of air carrying with it the alluring scent of fresh ground coffee, hot buttered toast and, unmistakeably, Greg Lestrade.

Mycroft smile despite his irritation, as he heard the click of a tray, set down upon a wooden surface and felt the touch of warm calloused hands through the thin material of his shirt as they wound around his waist from behind. A heavy chin, mildly scratchy with a two-day stubble rested on his shoulder and warm sweet breath tickled at the hair behind his ear.

“You’re wound so tight I could see you vibrating from across the room Myc, for fuck’s sake relax, the stress is pouring off you in waves”

“I don’t have time to relax, not today anyway, not now” he said stiffly.

“Bullshit, it’s the weekend, and our first day off together in weeks, well, it was supposed to be anyway”

He could hear the note of disappointment which almost made him feel nauseous with guilt, and stroked his hands placatingly down the sides of taught, muscular thighs. Greg growled in frustration, pressing closer, hands ghosting up over his chest now, thumbing over sensitive nipples. He bit down on the side of his mouth. He really should slap those hands down and step away from this, a state of arousal hardly conducive to mental clarity, but….oh god…the pattern of breaths behind him changed, panting lightly into the side of his neck, a hot wet tongue questing below his open shirt collar, leaving damp fiery trails on his skin.

“Greg…..I…” “Sshh….you don’t have to go yet…stay Myc…I miss you”

He relaxed back into the embrace, arching his head back against a strong broad shoulder.

“They can wait a little longer, they get too fucking much of you as it is”

Greg mouthed along his throat, an occasional light nip and tug, and Mycroft gave himself over to the sensation. They had both been too tired the night before, Greg from a day pounding the streets and endless reams of paperwork, Mycroft simply overwrought with the strain of keeping Sherlock in check for the three days of his suspension, and this morning, well, nothing dampens the libido quite like hearing your own brother in the throes of orgasm.

He carefully unwound Greg’s arms, turning to face him with a deep sigh.

“This is not fair you know, it’s impossible to say no when you look at me that way”

“That’s more like it”

Greg smiled, deep brown eyes crinkling at the corners, gazing at Mycroft like he was a gift he couldn’t wait to unwrap, when it was quite the opposite, Mycroft thought. He never ceased to marvel at the fact that he got to touch this man, undress him, have all of him, and to be desired in return. He remembered the night they met, not the most auspicious of circumstances obviously, arriving at the police station to collect Sherlock in the early hours - Greg had been the arresting officer. He had been completely unfazed by Mycroft’s undoubted wealth and status, chastised Sherlock soundly for causing him such worry, which he said he could see by Mycroft’s tight, white-knuckled grip on his umbrella, quite correctly of course. His incredible ability to see right through what he called the ‘Holmes family bullshit’ remained a constant source of wonder, and Mycroft had left that night with a number that had changed his life.

Soft lips met rough and slightly chapped, as Greg slipped his tongue inside with a low and needy moan. He tasted of coffee and something sweet, honey perhaps, Mycroft thought as he fisted a handful of thick dark hair, glittering in places with premature grey, the other hand sliding down to that taught, muscular arse, glutes flexing under the thin cotton material of lazy weekend pyjamas. He ground his hips helplessly, bullied into submission by lips and hands and a very prominent erection prodding insistently at his thigh, as they pitched backwards onto the mattress, in a tangle of limbs. The British Government reduced to a quivering state of wanton abandonment by a horny young policeman with the most incredible body Mycroft had ever seen, tight and toned, gently sculpted abdominals, a fuzz of dark prickly hair which set his skin on fire, that incredible arse and a gorgeous long, thick cock.

That he wanted Mycroft in return was a constant source of bemusement. He was tall and relatively slim, despite Sherlock’s barbed comments, but with a physique it would be fair to describe as ‘doughy’, with acres of pale freckled skin, and none of the angular, sculpted beauty of his achingly attractive sibling. But Greg made Mycroft feel beautiful, hands and mouth exploring him, mapping every inch as if it really mattered, that he mattered, as a person, not simply as an enormous brain.

Greg paused to pull off t-shirt and push down pyjamas, kicking them off impatiently as his fingers unbuttoned the expensive designer shirt with devastating speed, unwrapping his prize, sucking mercilessly on a soft pink nipple and biting as the blood began to pound in Mycroft’s ears.

“Fucking hell Myc, remind me why we couldn’t do this last night” Greg rasped, moving down to unfasten wool trousers, uncomfortably tight and tented at the groin, as Mycroft tilted his hips to push them down. He gasped in surprise as Greg mouthed at his aching prick through soft blue silk, leaving dampened patches which adhered slightly to his overheated skin.

“I can’t mention his name with your lips on my cock….please” he groaned.

The waistband wrenched down and his erection sprang free only to be engulfed in warm wet heat which made his hips buck reflexively. Mycroft decided to give up at this point, basking in the rippling sensations.

Greg always gave the most gloriously filthy blow-jobs, plenty of tongue and saliva, good and wet, laving over the sensitive head with perfect pressure, sucking down deep until Mycroft could bloody well feel the back of his throat, then swallowing around him, throat contracting, while gently teasing his balls, a slick wet thumb gently massaging the sensitive skin behind, slowly circling closer and closer to that tight, hidden pucker…

“Please Greg….I can’t….don’t” he stuttered helplessly, and Greg pulled off with a wet pop, cock slapping down onto his abdomen, hard and dark.

“Are you sure we have time for this….I mean we could always wait if you have important government business to attend to…” Greg teased casually.

“Don’t you fucking dare” Mycroft winced at the desperation and want in his voice. Greg grinned evilly, always amused at his ability to drive the straight laced Mycroft Holmes to the use of such base language.

“Will you beg for me Myc, tell me how much you want it…how much you need it” he dipped back between Mycroft’s parted thighs, tilting his arse to run a long teasing stripe with his tongue from the cleft of his arse to his balls, skimming lightly over his entrance. The ungodly noise that issued from Mycroft’s throat made his cheeks flame with embarrassment.

“Because we both know how much you like it”

“Yes…yes… I need it, I need you, do it now Greg, fuck me please…oh god please”

Strong arms encircled his torso and deftly flipped him over onto his stomach, cock grazing against the patterned covers as he fought the urge to rut against them, body thrumming with anticipation for the cool slick feel of lube on overheated skin, gasping and fisting handfuls of cotton at the first intrusion of wet probing fingertips, fucking and stretching him open, wider and wider, one, then two, then three, enough to tease but not satisfy, sure and confident in the ability to render him helpless, completely at Greg’s mercy.

“Oh god Myc, you feel so fucking good…”

Fingers withdrew and firm gentle hands tugged on his hips, raising him to his knees, shoulders still pressed down into the bed. Greg’s large glorious cock dripping with lube pressed insistently at his loosened hole pushing forward into smooth tight heat, filling the emptiness, stretching him so wide he could hardly breathe.

“….Greg….oh…” his voice cracked with emotion, heat prickling at the corners of his eyes, the great Mycroft Holmes on his knees, undone as Greg sank in deep, only to pull back and thrust swiftly forward setting a brutal pace. Oh how he loved it hard and fast, hot and dirty, it made him feel alive, a temporary reprieve from the chaos inside his head, as he was pounded ruthlessly across the bed, Greg knowing instinctively how much he could take. His cock and balls swung heavy and aching between his spread legs and the air was forced from his lungs with every thrust.

“Close… so close..” Greg panted above him, reaching around his body to finally take him in hand, gripping his prick in a hot, slick fist, making an orifice for Mycroft to fuck into, chasing down their climax together. He came with a shuddering moan, cock pulsing again and again, wringing every last drop from his shivering body, feeling Greg’s warm, wet release trickling down his thighs, collapsing down together, sucking air into aching lungs in long greedy gulps.

They hadn’t even made it into the bed, lying on top of ruined covers. Greg pushed them down until far enough to fold their legs inside, pulling them back up over their cooling skin, warm and secure. Mycroft nestled his head into the crook of his lovers’ neck.

“Now, what was so important that it almost came before this?” Greg’s gravelly voice rumbled in his throat.

Mycroft squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. He had hoped to avoid this conversation a little longer, savour this precious time together. Alas, it was not to be.

“He’s back Greg” he paused as he heard a sharp intake of breath “Victor is back”.

“How….when Myc?”

“He’s been back in the country for a little over a month now, I was informed the instant his feet touched British soil. He was placed under immediate surveillance, and it all seemed quite satisfactory but….”

He paused, heart clenching in his chest, feelings he had managed to control pushing their way back to the surface. “….everything has changed…..he made contact with Sherlock last night”

Greg pulled him close, kissing his damp forehead softly.

“I can’t let this happen Greg, I almost lost him once….I just can’t do it again”

“And Sherlock?” Greg whispered tentatively.

Mycroft ran a hand down over his face.

“Oh my god Myc…when?”

“Just this morning I’ve been informed”

“But he’s with John, they left together, I don’t know where they were going but John didn’t have any of his things with him, so not home…..anyway, for all we know he might have told him to piss off”

“I wish I could share your optimism, Sherlock actively pursued Victor for months before they slept together, how long do you think an ordinary boy like John Watson could hold his attention when Victor…..” he shuddered “shares some of his particular… quirks…and we both know he’s done it since, and worse besides”

“Come on Myc, it can’t be that bad, a little bondage doesn’t make you some sort of deviant, he’s just a kid, it’s probably all harmless fun”

“You know how he was after Victor …went away…it was far from harmless Greg….I could make him disappear…”

“No” Greg said firmly, turning onto his side so they lay face to face. “If you did that then you would lose Sherlock, for good, and I don’t mean physically…you can’t Mycroft, he would hate you for it, he’s almost an adult, he has to choose”

“It can’t end well Greg”

“You have to trust him to make the right choice…and just be there if he doesn’t”

~*~

Sherlock hated himself a little more with every step he took towards his destination, rubber soles dragging along the ground, hands shoved down firmly into pockets, body tense with anticipation. He licked his lips, tongue and teeth drawing over the soft flesh, longing for the taste of John’s mouth on his again, sweet warm breath, blue eyes dark with want for him, Sherlock. It was unforgiveable, what he had just done, left him, standing on an unfamiliar street in South London, with not even a proper parting, while he conspired to deceive him yet again, pouring lie upon lie, until he couldn’t remember what John actually knew and what remained hidden.

He was despicable.

The hours would drag until he would see him again tonight, every minute without John seemed unbearably long and tedious, the very air denser, more difficult to move through, to breathe, and he deserved to suffocate like this, fall victim to his own unforgiveable selfishness, because John was good, and deserved better than he could ever give him, and he was bad, evil, putrid flesh on worthless bones.

He grimaced and gasped as a sharp spasm of pain sliced across his abdomen, the ghost of a memory, of a time in the not too distant past, of shivering and sweating in cold dark places, of a body just barely holding itself together, eyes bulging and chest burning, involuntary tears pouring over hot fevered cheeks, not even capable of holding a drop of water in his heaving gut. Two weeks in a morphine haze, barely capable of thought, because thinking hurt and remembering hurt and he had hated the world and everyone in it, and Mycroft, especially Mycroft who had fucking well ruined it all that warm, quiet night in June with warm blankets and sirens and soft kind hands that plucked the needle from his arm and crushed the syringe under his shoe, holding him close until the ambulance came, dripping tears into his matted hair, “Why Sherlock, Why?” over and over.

(Because I wanted to Mycroft, because it made me happy).

But even all that was after. First came the parties and sneaking out of school in the dead of night to go clubbing and dancing, sucking off strangers for cash, being called ‘beautiful boy’ and ‘gorgeous’ and ‘slut’ and ‘whore’, fucking boys at school for drugs or just because he bloody well wanted to and no-one ever said no.

He was appalling, and Mycroft was incandescent with rage, and the angrier he got the more Sherlock screwed around losing count of nights spent with a different naked body pressed against him in the dark.

And he had loved it.

Every sick second of it.

He hadn’t been led astray, hadn’t been abused, or damaged, or used, if anything, he had used them, addicted to the endorphin high of sex, a fuck to get his fix.

But more sex led to more drugs, and more risky behaviour, selling himself like a whore, and not just the occasional back street blow job. And his head, the noise just wouldn’t stop, he couldn’t think anymore, the only cure – more of everything, until the night more meant far too much and it almost ended right there….

Sherlock still refused to believe that any of this was the fault of Victor Trevor. He was wild long before that, and if anything, his mission to get into Victor’s pants had slowed him down for a few months, a focus for his attentions, a game to see how far he had to push before Victor gave in, four months from their first meeting as it turned out, probably sooner if he had been legal, but unfortunately for him Victor’s moral compass had railed against sodomising underage boys (but had been perfectly fine with a happy new year hand job, so it had seemed).

What they had done together was not the problem, it had been one of the best nights of Sherlock’s life in that respect, but Victor had left. It didn’t matter that Mycroft had sent him away, to Sherlock he had never tried and therefore he had never really cared.

And that had been the real shock in the end, it had started as a game and ended with a gaping hole in his chest where his heart should have been and he never, ever wanted to feel that way again, until that choice had been taken away from him too, now there was John…

He should have told him, told John then and there this morning, the fact that his only significant ex, the one who had broken his non-existent heart was back, and was asking to see him, but honesty had never been Sherlock’s strong point, and old habits die hard, as they say.

So why exactly had he agreed to this? A clandestine meeting far away from prying eyes? Because he had to know for sure, if it was all gone, if he was truly over this, so that he could bury it in his past where it belonged.

His stomach lurched again as he finally set foot on the Kings Road, feeling conspicuous and out of place even though he knew he looked like he belonged, his extraordinary looks earning more than a few passing glances as he made his way past smart shops and bars to The Jam Tree, a favourite hang-out of the rich boarding school set, chilled, funky décor and over-inflated prices, how very Victor, Sherlock thought with a smirk as he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

It was lunchtime, and fairly busy, as Sherlock stood near the entrance scanning the faces by the bar, searching for familiar blond curls and a tall, honed physique. It had been over eighteen months but he knew he would recognise him anywhere, just from the briefest glimpse of the back of a head. Nothing. Sherlock let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding and sank back down onto his heels, wondering if he was too early, but no, a quick glance at his home screen told him he was actually fifteen minutes late.

“Shit” he blurted as he almost dropped the bloody thing when it went off in his hand.

**Look to your left, window seat, you look amazing btw – V x**

He blinked at the screen for a few seconds hardly daring to look, his palms sweating slightly, before turning his head, his hand shaking a little as he pushed the phone back into his pocket. Victor was sitting nonchalantly in a booth by the window, glass of wine on the table, arm casually draped along the back of the leather seat, smiling across at him shyly, and he looked…exactly the same, maybe even better out of the stuffy dinner jackets or formal work attire he had always been dressed in at Sherlock’s house. He seemed younger, more relaxed, in jeans, t-shirt and a soft leather jacket, and he was every fucking inch as gorgeous as Sherlock remembered.

Damn, damn, damn.

He made his way over, past tables of twittering socialites and city boys and dropped onto the seat opposite feigning a casualness that he did not feel, slouching back languidly, ruffling his curls with a yawn.

“Hiding in plain sight are we Victor? How very pedestrian” he drawled, shooting Victor a withering glare. Victor just laughed at his scowling face, eyes shining.

“And hello to you too Sherlock, by god, it’s good to see you” (he hated the little spark that ignited in his chest at those words, on hearing that voice again) Sherlock rolled his eyes

“You do realise that Mycroft will have tracked your every movement as soon as you set foot on British soil Victor?”

Victor shrugged “Of course, I wouldn’t have expected anything less from big brother, still trying to protect your virtue is he? Well we both know that’s a lost cause, don’t we?”

He didn’t want to smile dammit, but the corners of his mouth quirked upwards despite his best efforts.

“Hmm…well you would know, wouldn’t you?”

Oh god, how he wished he could forget the push and pull of soft warm lips, strong arms moulding and shaping him, deft fingers seeking out those most secret places for the very first time, holding him down, anchoring him.

He should leave. Now.

He stayed, glued to his seat.

Victor gave a soft sigh of relief at the less abrasive tone

“Ah Mycroft, always a pleasure, I think we gave him a fucking heart attack that morning, I’m only thankful he didn’t burst in on us when I actually had you tied to the bed”

Sherlock clenched his knees together, hard, bone moving against bone until it hurt.

“Yes, well the only flavour Mycroft’s sex life comes in is boring Vanilla” Sherlock laughed despite himself.

“I mean it though, it really is good to see you”, Victor said, seriously, “you’ve changed so much, even taller if that’s possible, incredible, you just look incredible, well apart from that” , he pointed with a wry smile at the fading greenish bruise on his face, “I won’t ask how you got that, I think I can hazard a guess”, he grinned, and there was genuine awe in his voice as he turned the full force of his gaze upon him, green eyes flashing.

Sherlock felt an embarrassing flush creep from his chest, spreading up his neck as he swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“I never forgot Sherlock, I never wanted to leave” he went on , Sherlock sat in silence not trusting himself to speak, “We have mutual friends though, they kept me in the loop… you don’t have to explain any of it, the things that happened after…I already know…” there was an unbearable sadness in his voice as he spoke, eyes cast down, a flicker of pain in the set of his jaw as he shook his head in disbelief.

Pleasantries over, time to move on to the juicy stuff, Sherlock thought, cynically. Does it hurt Victor? Good.

“And what exactly to you think you know Victor?”

Victor twisted a napkin nervously between his fingers, worrying at the tight cotton fibres,

“About June…rehab” (Mycroft had a leak in his inner circle then, that was useful to know)

“That was barely four months ago Victor, you’ve been gone a hell of a lot longer than that, try again”

“That you had been heading off the rails well before that, you had quite the reputation around town, did you realise?”

(well he hadn’t exactly been discreet so no surprise there)

“Oh yes? And what for exactly, don’t be coy now Victor, it doesn’t suit you”

Victor shifted uncomfortably in his seat now, unwilling to vocalise the sordid details currently souring his mouth.

“Let me help shall I?” Sherlock hissed, voice low so as not to draw unwanted attention “That I was anyone’s for the price of a gram of coke? What’s wrong Victor, did I accidently fuck a friend of yours without realising? Did they pay me? Was I good?”

“Stop it Sherlock! Just shut the hell up!”

“Why? It’s fucking true, isn’t it? You created the monster after all Victor”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips, because they just weren’t true, he was a monster before that, he had created himself. He folded his arms defensively across his chest.

But Victor was not so easily cowed, he should have remembered that about him, did remember, how he could push through Sherlock’s walls, see through the act, laugh at his childish posturing.

“Oh fuck off Sherlock, you were a rampant little cock-tease long before I came on the scene, so don’t try and pull that shit with me”

Sherlock lifted his left leg and draped it over his right, ankle resting on his knee as he played idly with the laces of his shoes and wondered why this was so fucking hard when he knew in his heart what he wanted. But he had to hear him out. It had been too long and they needed this, both of them.

“You scared me half to death Sherlock, and besides, I didn’t stick that fucking needle full of shit in your arm did I?”

Victor glanced around nervously, listening intently for any lull in the conversation around them. There was none. He continued.

“Why would you do that? Were you trying off yourself? Or was it just another fucking game to you, like let’s fuck Victor….how much can my body take before it breaks? Jesus Christ Sherlock, were you that unhappy?”

“I just fucked up , I was never unhappy”

Maybe he had been, it was all a blur now anyway, the entire month of June lost in a chemical haze.

“Happy people don’t pump drugs into their veins Sherlock”

“On the contrary, it made me very happy” he bit back, unable to prevent the customary snarky comeback.

He wasn’t lying though, it had made him happy, up to a point, until he’d tipped over the edge from control to chaos, that’s why it was still a constant danger, an itch he could no longer afford to scratch.

“Who the hell are you trying to fool, because you damn well don’t fool me you arrogant little prick”

Sherlock shrugged, feigning boredom again, despite his roiling gut

“It doesn’t matter anyway, that’s over now, done, I’m clean, back in school, playing in a band…and I have a boyfriend” he glanced up, eager to see the reaction to these words. He could see the tension in Victor’s jaw, the hollow of his cheek flexing over clenched teeth.

(Boyfriend? Is that what John was? His boyfriend? – he felt a warm glow in his chest at the thought).

“I know….the blond kid….I’ve seen him”

Sherlock’s head snapped up in surprise, wracking his brain to try and work out where the hell Victor could have crossed paths with John in the past week. Victor obliged with an answer.

“I was on my way to work, you were standing half way down Baker Street, been out all night by the look of things, you kissed him, right there in the middle of the street” he sounded sad again.

“John”

“On first name terms, that’s good, a step forward from what I’ve heard Sherlock, and does he know?”Victor snapped at him.

“About what Victor? About you? No. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning to be honest, ancient history don’t you think?”

Victor winced, Sherlock was ashamed that it felt good to hurt him, to cause him pain.

“About everything Sherlock, all the demons, the very worst of you”

It was Sherlock’s turn to squirm uncomfortably, unable to meet Victor’s challenging gaze. He had found his Achilles heel, his greatest fear. John knew a little now after Mycroft’s little stunt, a bit of casual sex, a sneaky joint, and he had accepted that, defended him even, while acknowledging it was a bit not good. But all the rest? The junkie? The whore? He only hoped his little act this morning hadn’t been too convincing….it was a ticking time-bomb and he was simply delaying the inevitable.

“I just need you to know Sherlock, that I don’t care, about any of it, because I know you, you’re beautiful and brilliant and a massive fucking pain in the arse, and I still want you anyway, never stopped really…”

Sherlock sucked in a breath. Oh god, don’t say that, don’t, don’t, don’t.

“You left me Victor, you let Mycroft win, you’ve had months to get in touch, and I heard nothing”

“Listen, after my internship ended I decided to do a bit of travelling, it was a good way to slip off Mycroft’s radar once I left the USA. I was in France when you overdosed, I tried to come, but I couldn’t get a flight. As soon as I gave my details, it was like the shutters came down. He fucking knew I would try to get to you, he stopped me. I heard about rehab, but none of the clinics had even heard of you”

“Mycroft can bury whatever he wants to stay hidden, officially I was never even hospitalised….he could bury you Victor, he still might”

Victor gave a hollow laugh, short and mirthless I can’t live the rest of my life afraid of what Mycroft Holmes might do”

“Then you’re an idiot Victor….he could fix it so you never even existed”

“Good, I fancy re-inventing myself”

“Don’t fucking joke about it” Sherlock hissed, losing patience, “anyway, I’ll bet you didn’t exactly take a vow of celibacy the whole time you were away”

“No, but compared to you, I’m a bloody born-again virgin. Look, there’s nobody else, hasn’t been for a while, you see, I just can’t seem to get this lanky, dark-haired idiot off my mind” his face softened and he leaned back, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry Victor….I just can’t….not now…I’m with John”

(oh god, this was bad, so bad, he didn’t want to hear this, couldn’t bear it)

“Does he take care of you Sherlock?.....I could take care of you….you know I could, we wouldn’t even have to stay in London, anywhere you want, France, Italy, America, I don’t care…”

“I don’t even know you anymore…it’s been too long…you can’t just come back and say stuff like that Victor…stuff you should have said back then”

Victor reached out a trembling hand then, and ran soft fingertips down the side of his face, his touch left a burning trail on his skin and his heart began to hammer wildly in his chest, he felt sick and light-headed, he had stayed too long and heard exactly what he didn’t want to hear.

He knew what the next words would be before they even left Victor’s lips.

“I love you Sherlock….come back”

His head swirled and the room span, like an attack of vertigo, perched on the edge of a precipice looking down into the void, he heard an odd choking sound and vaguely registered that it issued from his own throat. He wanted to push that hand away, he wanted to suck those fingers into his mouth, he wanted to punch him, he wanted to push their mouths together until they couldn’t breathe.

Breathe. Breathe for fuck’s sake Sherlock. He inhaled with a ragged gasp.

“No” he choked out, “you don’t love me, you can’t….you only want me now because you saw me with someone else, with John…” he pushed up from his seat, legs finally obeying his frantic mind.

Victor looked into his eyes with a steady gaze, as if happy with the reaction the slightest touch had caused

“You can tell as soon as you look at me, whether it’s a lie or the truth, I know you Sherlock, the only one that’s lying is you… to yourself….I have time, think it over, I know it’s a lot to take in….. but you know we could be good together”

“Don’t you fucking dare try to tell me what I feel Victor….I…” he had to get out, now, he couldn’t think and the words were just coming out all wrong. He brought down the mask, set his face like stone, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions he accomplished what he had to, enough to muster the strength to leave, he shut them all off, shut himself down. He moved stiffly towards the door, Victor’s voice ringing in his ears…

“You still feel it Sherlock…its real”

~*~

Stupid, stupid Sherlock. It had been a mistake to even go there, to see Victor in the flesh again, he thought angrily as he stomped towards the University campus wreathed in the early evening darkness. He took a final drag on his third cigarette in a row, flicking it away into someone’s front garden, a smouldering blot on the neat square of grass. He felt achingly cold through the thin material of his t-shirt and jacket, but bore it like the punishment he deserved. It would be hard to go through with what he knew he had to do tonight, to make this right, face the threat of condemnation and just bloody well lay all his cards on the table, tell him, tell John everything. And if he couldn’t tell him? Then he was just going to have to bloody well show him.

He paused at the entrance to John’s building and waited for a group of scantily clad girls wearing far too much make-up to open the door from within, giggling and holding onto each others arms as they tottered on ridiculously high heels. Who the hell designed those things, he thought wonderingly, they looked more like instruments of torture than actual shoes. One of the girls caught him staring and gave him an appraising glance.

“Hey there gorgeous” she winked, her friends bursting into a volley of drunken giggles, already loaded up before they even hit the bars. Not a bad idea really, Sherlock thought, maybe John had some vodka or something, sink a few shots before they left….

Sherlock felt a warm throb of heat, deep in his gut. Why had he even thought this would be hard?, there really was no competition, he wanted John Watson, mind, body and soul…. the body as soon as possible, preferably…

~*~

“Ready?”

“Ready”

John finished adjusting his hair in the bathroom mirror, as the whorl of butterflies currently resident in his stomach broke into flight again. He was going on a date, an actual proper date with Sherlock, his boyfriend Sherlock. Long arms wrapped around his waist as a long, hard body pressed into him from behind.

“You said that ten minutes ago, and you still aren’t done, come on John, you look fucking gorgeous to me, in fact, if we don’t leave right now I’m going to start undressing you again” Sherlock whined, as his hands snaked forward with malicious intent. He grasped the front of John’s belt, the loop sliding between long pale fingers.

John groaned, “Don’t you teasing bastard, I’m done….now move”.

He bucked back in a futile attempt to dislodge the figure behind him and only succeeded in grinding on Sherlock’s half-hard prick. Oh god, not again.

They had already been one false start, Sherlock on him almost as soon as he arrived an hour ago, pushing him down on the bed and rutting like kids before they managed to get their jeans off and push their pants down to messily finish each other off.

So it was going to be one of those nights, interesting.

“You are so fucking horny tonight Sherlock, even more so than usual, care to enlighten me?”

Sherlock just shrugged, his pale face and ever-changing eyes (glistening like mercury tonight) reflected in the mirror as he pressed his chin into John’s shoulder.

“You just look so good, all tarted up, ready to go out on the lash” the slang term sounded hilarious said in his cut-glass, public school drawl.

“On the lash? That council estate we went to this morning really rubbed off on you didn’t it?” he laughed. Sherlock pouted, pretending to be offended by the taunt, nipping at an earlobe just enough to hurt.

“One more for the road?”

Sherlock nodded in agreement, as John untangled himself and walked across the room to his desk, pouring each a measure of vodka into two shot glasses, stolen from another night out, months ago. John shuddered as he knocked back the burning, bitter liquid in one gulp, feeling the warm glow spread down his throat and chest, continuing through his body, head already buzzing faintly.

Oh god, this night could turn very fucking messy, four shots in the last half hour on an empty stomach? Not good.

“We need to eat something on the way” he said, ignoring the eye roll he received in return “No, seriously Sherlock, you’ll be picking me up out of the gutter in an hour if I don’t line my stomach with something, I already feel a bit pissed”

“Oh god what a lightweight, we’re not even out yet” Sherlock huffed, “Okay, I’ll share a bag of chips or something, some nice greasy, deep-fried, artery-clogging potatoes, will that do?” he gave a long-suffering sigh, leaning back languidly on the bed.

It was best not to make too big a deal about it, John decided. He doubted very much whether Sherlock had eaten at all today, he certainly hadn’t eaten breakfast and he had pissed off somewhere else just before lunch, and as far as John was aware, cigarettes and alcohol did not belong to any known food group. It counted as a minor triumph to get Sherlock to agree to eat anything, so there was no way he was going to contradict him.

He felt like a giddy school girl tonight, thrumming with excitement and anticipation, and it wasn’t just the early alcohol buzz. It was ages since he’d had a real night out drinking and clubbing. The last time had been with Mike and Bill from home, Bill’s eighteenth birthday. They had organised a coach trip to London, thirty people in total, he’d shared a fishbowl with Mike, almost pissed himself twice and got off with Sara at the end of the night, fingering her on the backseat of the bus on the way home, Sara’s coat draped over their bodies, fooling no-one and too drunk to care.

He didn’t even know who that John Watson was anymore. He glanced up to find Sherlock bent over at the waist to re-tie his shoelace, arse in the air, t-shirt riding up his back exposing skin and underwear (at least he had pants on tonight) and remembered, he liked this life better, much, much better (and maybe he would get to finger Sherlock at the end of the night – probably, the shameless tart)

He picked up his jacket and they headed out the door, finally, first stop the fish and chip shop on the high street, (not) amusingly named ‘The Codfather’.

“Really?” Sherlock stared up at the garish neon sign, incredulous, “That, is a fucking travesty, a gross abuse of the English language”

“Just eat the damn chips Sherlock” John growled, stabbing a steaming slice of potato with a tiny wooden fork

(‘it has three tines John, it’s a fucking trident not a fork’), nostrils stinging at the pungent aroma from copious amounts of malt vinegar and salt. He should at least be thankful that Sherlock had held off from berating the poor manager about his appalling idea of an amusing pun.

“What the fuck is this?”

Sherlock’s fingers dipped into the tray of hot food and held up the offending object for John’s inspection between forefinger and thumb, and from the expression on his face you would have thought it was a bloody hand grenade with the pin pulled out. It was approximately six inches long and dripping in grease.

“Battered sausage” John mumbled through a starchy mouthful, “try it…s’nice”

Sherlock nibbled tentatively at one end, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“And you’re really going to put this thing in your mouth?, it’s disgusting”

John plucked it from his outstretched fingers, taking a big, greedy bite, “Mmm…nice”

“How can you eat something that looks like a deep fried dick John?”

“Because it tastes good, and because I don’t think too hard about what’s probably in it, and anyway you’ve only had about three fucking chips Sherlock, so if you puke in the taxi, I’m not paying the fine, what do you run on, fresh air? Or are you some cybernetic human hybrid who just plugs into the wall like charging an electric car?”

Sherlock gave him ‘the look’ and sank his teeth into John’s shoulder making him yelp.

“Maybe I’ll just suck on a bit of your blood like a vampire, would that make you happy?”

“You probably would as well you nutcase”

John pushed him away, skin tingling, wondering if he had just drawn blood. He pushed this admittedly erotic thought aside and sucked the last of the grease from his fingertips, shoving the polystyrene tray into a nearby bin.

“Right…let’s do this”

The strip of pubs that Sherlock had chosen were already buzzing with activity as they stepped out of the cab at around nine o’ clock, police patrolled up and down occasionally, in pairs, no-one drunk enough yet to cause any real trouble. This was Doug Miller’s patch according to Sherlock, a rival to Frank Hudson, with his own club and his own band of dealers, including the delightful Trent, last seen doubled over somewhere in New Cross after Sherlock kneed him right in the balls, his two tank-like mates as it happened, were Miller’s sons. John prayed that they wouldn’t bump into any of them tonight, he didn’t particularly want to test Greg’s theory that Sherlock was ‘like a rabid dog in a fight’. Oh, fuck that reminded him…

“Hey, Greg’s not on duty tonight is he?”

“Maybe”, Sherlock shrugged, as he bounced on the balls of his feet, keyed up and eager to get the night started.

“Oh fuck!...what if he sees you?, you’re underage” John glanced around nervously at the pair of officers, currently chatting amiably to a young couple in matching jackets, sure they would notice any second, as if Sherlock had a massive flashing sign over his head that said ‘seventeen’.

He needed to relax, bouncers always zeroed in on a guilty looking face.

“Listen John”, Sherlock gripped his upper arm, suddenly serious, a slightly manic glint in his quicksilver eyes, “whatever, you see tonight…or hear…whatever I do….it’s me, not an act, not like this morning” his eyes flickered over John’s face, searching for signs of comprehension “You’ll get to see what I’m like….what I’m really like”.

The earnest way he said those words were making John a little nervous, Sherlock had been wired since his explosive arrival at the flat, but he had put it down to excitement, just the same as him, but there was something else behind this, something more. He wished to god that the stupid idiot would just come out and say what was on his mind, instead of assuming that John was clever enough to understand all the cryptic little clues and tells.

“I used to do this a lot you know John, every weekend, it was one of the reasons I was expelled from my last school” they strolled towards a promising looking pub, not too busy, room at the bar, half-decent music pumping in muffled bursts every time the door opened and closed.

Ah right, confession time was it? John thought. He had to admit he was intrigued after last night’s dinner party revelations. He had already concluded for himself that Sherlock was a bit of a precocious wild-child, but it would be fascinating to get the story from the horse’s mouth, not from malicious twats like Sebastian Wilkes.

“Just how many schools are we talking about? Mycroft said you were at the only one who would take you this year”

“Six”

“Fucking hell Sherlock! What did you do to get chucked out six times?”

Must add juvenile delinquent to the list then, thought John, biting back the urge to laugh.

“Lots of stuff, sneaking out after dark, turning up drunk or hung-over to lessons, Hampdon you know about already (oh god, the weed and the threesome, surely it couldn’t get any worse than that?), fighting, getting high…need I go on?”

“Er no…I get the picture…you were a fucking nightmare…no change there then I guess”.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you” Sherlock said, shoving him firmly through the open door into beery warmth.

“What’s the plan then?” John had to ask. There was no way this was just a merry little pub crawl, not when your drinking partner was Sherlock.

“Get pissed, then head to Powerhouse later, when it’s busy, I know people, used to hang out there a lot…Doug Miller owns it, does a hell of a lot more business than Frank Hudson’s place”

“Never been, never actually heard of it, what’s it like?”

“Well that doesn’t really come as any big surprise John, it’s a gay nightclub, not really your scene…until recently” he stood a little closer, using the excuse of the crowded bar area to nudge up against John, pushing a thigh between his legs while sipping innocently on a vodka and coke. A heavy-set bloke nudged him from behind, as he strained to get past and Sherlock put out his free hand to steady himself, hand pressed firmly in the centre of John’s chest, smirking to see John’s nipples harden in response to his touch. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? It didn’t seem like the kind of place to openly snog another bloke.

“You are so going to pay for that later Sherlock” he whispered in a low voice.

“I was counting on it John” Sherlock replied, necking back the rest of the glass and steering John firmly towards the exit.

Two more pubs and three more drinks later they stood on moderately wobbly legs outside another garish neon sign fronting a three-storey glass confection of a building.

“No” Sherlock dragged impatiently on John’s arm, not here, it’s a shit hole, I won’t be seen inside anywhere calling itself fucking ‘Tiger Tiger’”

“Why the fuck not?, it’s packed out, must be something good going on if that many people like it?” John pouted.

“Ask any one of the fucking morons in that place who William Bake is…go on” Sherlock gestured around wildly, words slurring slightly in response to the large volume of alcohol currently raging around his system. A bouncer on the door eyed them warily.

“I’m a moron, ask me” he hissed grabbing Sherlock’s wrists and pulling them down by his sides.

“Okay, tell me…who is he?” Sherlock challenged “English poet, among other things, born 1757, one of his most famous poems ‘Tiger, Tiger, burning bright in the forest of the night, what immortal hand or eye, could frame thy fearful symmetry?.....good enough answer for you, you stupid twat?” he finished, breathing heavily, Sherlock staring at him slack-jawed. He didn’t care who was looking ,and how they might react, he yanked Sherlock forward and crushed his mouth in a bruising kiss. It took a moment for Sherlock to catch up, before he gave back as good as he got, tongue fighting for dominance.

“Where the hell did you come from John Watson” he gasped between shaky breaths.

They were oblivious to the people passing by, stepping around them, standing as they were, right in the middle of the street. John vaguely heard a few catcalls and whistles, a group of girls giggling (Oh, it’s two cute guys, that’s so fucking hot) and the obligatory ‘look at those faggots that’s fucking disgusting’. He really couldn’t care less, it was insane, he would quote poetry at Sherlock all day long if it turned him on this much.

They pulled apart, Sherlock’s lips were swollen and glistening in the artificial light, and John thought he looked like a fucking dark angel, all wide-eyed and out of breath, as he watched their chests heave in and out in tandem, still pressed tightly together, heart darting and skipping erratically.

Sherlock took his hand wordlessly, pulling his unresisting form past the offending club that John no longer held any desire to enter, and onward to their final destination for the evening, Powerhouse.

It was eleven thirty and filling up nicely, they only had a short wait in the queue outside , not enough time to freeze their bollocks off, before they were enveloped in garish décor and loud pulsing dance music. John could feel the beat vibrating in his bones as he struggled to take in his surroundings. It was an assault on the senses, not a trace of beer or sticky carpets, overlaid with a faint trace of piss or vomit, instead, a million different perfumes and colognes fought for dominance, everything just….glittered… from the shining tiles on the floor, to the disco balls rotating on the ceiling, to the drag queens in full glamorous evening gowns sporting the entire contents of the Boots and Superdrug make-up counters added together. It should have been awful, the stuff of hallucinogenic nightmares, but….the overall effect was magical, and he couldn’t stop the wide grin that threatened to split his face in two.

And Sherlock….he looked radiant, alive, exactly where he was supposed to be, he fit right into this alien world, this ethereal waif in tight black jeans.

John felt a weird swooping sensation in his gut as he looked at him, like when you reach the crest of a hill in your car and then tip over the edge on the descent, he felt a little nauseous, but not from the alcohol, and the music became just a little bit too loud as something itched at the back of his brain, fighting it’s way in to his conscious mind.

Oh fuck….I think I love him…

His lungs felt too small as he tried to draw breath, like trying to suck in air through a drinking straw, a lot of effort for not much reward. He stumbled forward blindly, reaching out for Sherlock’s arm as he surged across the crowded dance floor, the most direct route to the bar. (if they got separated in here they would never find each other again). It was unlike anything John had experienced before, easing past gyrating dancers, same-sex couples snogging and groping openly, hands caressing his back and his arse as they made their way through, cheeky winks, the odd squeeze that made him yelp in surprise. Sherlock kept glancing back at him, checking to see he was okay, laughing at the stunned expression on his face, utter shellshock. Sherlock on the other hand, looked in his element, shimmying expertly around the tight press of sweating bodies, batting off wandering hands playfully, pointing at John when someone tried to go a little too far, mouthing ‘sorry, I’m with my boyfriend’ as John’s chest swelled with pride. They made it to the bar in one piece, John the slightly more ruffled of the two, he pushed nervous fingers through his hair and smoothed down the creases in his t-shirt.

“You survived then?” Sherlock smirked as they swigged gratefully from bottles of mineral water, leaning against the wall by the bar.

“Yeah, just, I think. Fucking hell that was a bit rough”

“You made quite an impression” Sherlock raised an eyebrow cheekily, “had one or two offers to take you off my hands on the way over…what was it that guy with the tattoos said? You can’t keep that cute little blond arse all to yourself now sugar, wanna share?”

“Really? Fucking hell Sherlock, should I be scared?”

“Of course not…nobody’s going to molest you…not unless you want them to of course…then all bets are off, so to speak” he grinned evilly.

“Oh shit…and people do that…do it…right here?” he glanced around nervously, half expecting to see someone getting fucked in a quiet corner.

“It’s not a sex club John for god’s sake although there is a private members area, but it’s easy enough to get off if that’s what you want”

“Ah, I see” well, he didn’t see really, it was a bit overwhelming if he was honest and to his shock and surprise it was also a massive turn-on, the thought of being caught fucking Sherlock in a club, and people staying to watch the show. Jesus Christ what the hell was wrong with him?

“You’re thinking about it” Sherlock whispered in his ear, snaking out the tip of his tongue to trace along the outer edge… “about doing me right here, where everyone can see, aren’t you?…”

He swallowed thickly and took another long pull on his bottle of water, wishing it was something stronger.

“Well, well John Watson, that annoying little public sex kink has got you all hard again hasn’t it? You want to take me in front of a roomful of people, bend me over on the middle of the dance floor, shove your massive co………”

“Shut the fuck up Sherlock” he grabbed a skinny arm roughly and dragged him back into the heaving throng, disconcerted that he had been read so easily, all his pervy thoughts on display.

“You’re such a bloody tease, but you know that already don’t you? But here’s the thing Sherlock…..you would let me do it too, wouldn’t you?, because you would get off on it yourself” he grinned in triumph as a faint flush painted those pale cheeks, they were as bad as each other, and what a wondrous thought that was.

He ground his hips forward and moaned at the sparks of friction from two layers of denim, Sherlock arched his neck back, exposing that long stretch of white skin, just ripe for biting, as his eyes fluttered closed. He gave in to the urge to suck hungrily on that gorgeous neck, needing to mark him, a clear ‘fuck off’ to anyone thinking they might get their hands on what was his, thankful that the music drowned out the delicious little noises Sherlock made as he clung to John’s waist.

I love him, I love him, I love him, Jesus Christ I love him.

Every second felt infinite, every nerve ending on fire, as the rest of the room faded away, becoming nothing more than a soft, multi-coloured blur as he drowned himself in the boy before him, fingers squeezing tighter just to ensure he was real, this couldn’t be real. He lifted his head to pull Sherlock into a kiss, quicksilver the merest glimmer behind wide black pupils. He pressed their foreheads together instead, content to just stare.

“Sherlock Holmes, you insatiable little tart…I haven’t seen you in ages” a soft silky voice sounded behind him, close to his ear.

“Pulled the cutest boy in the room again, so I see”

Sherlock glanced up, blinking rapidly with a slightly glazed expression on his face, purple marks blooming against his pale skin, looking thoroughly ravished. He focused unsteadily on the speaker, the light of recognition suddenly sparking in his eyes.

“Irene…always a pleasure”

It sounded so stiff and formal and just plain weird. Intrigued , John turned to see a breathtakingly beautiful young woman, dressed like a nineteen forties movie star, blood red lips and perfectly rolled hair pouting flirtatiously as her eyes traced over every inch of Sherlock. John felt a clenching in his chest and narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

“Is it too much to hope that you’ve reconsidered my kind offer?” she continued to focus on Sherlock, ignoring John completely, as if his presence meant nothing.

“Thank you, but I must decline Irene….I’m quite capable of finding my own fun”

“Oh now Sherlock, it’s about so much more than fun, we both know that, don’t we?, we would make an incredible….partnership, you and I, we’d have them queuing all the way to France” her laugh was soft and musical.

There was obviously something going on here, a layer of subtext, every word had a double meaning John was sure, but she was hardly Sherlock’s type now, was she?

“So”, she continued, as Sherlock regarded her thoughtfully, “A purely social occasion is it? Oh it’s a date, how adorable” her eyes raked over John now as if he was a particularly juicy stake, coming to rest on the obvious bulge in the front of his jeans, “Oh dear, I didn’t interrupt something important gorgeous, did I?” she winked at him and he blushed horribly.

“There is something you might be able to help with though” Sherlock said, drawing her attention back again, “What’s the deal between Miller and Hudson?”

“Very direct, Sherlock dear, you always did love to stick that gorgeous…..nose…where it wasn’t wanted”

“Well from what I hear things are starting to get a bit out of hand, to put it mildly, two of Frank’s girls were hurt the other night, now what sort of gentleman would treat a lady like that, I wonder?” Her eyes darkened at these words, he had obviously struck a nerve.

“Frank is trying to cut the supply, or limit it in some way, I don’t know the details, it’s not my scene, to make everything more expensive at this end, to ramp the price up for Doug’s boys, and he’s been accused of” she glanced around uneasily as she ushered them over to the edge of the floor, “watering down the product” she searched Sherlock’s face for answers, only to be faced with blank mask of concentration.

She glanced down. “That’s the fifth time in the last five minutes darling….somebody loves you” her eyes flickered over to John again as she licked her lips suggestively, coquettish persona firmly back in place.

Sherlock surfaced from trance-like state with a jolt, hand skimming over the pocket of his jeans where the shape of his phone stood out clearly. His eyes snapped back to Irene, focusing clearly now.

“Get her out of there Irene, or I’ll begin to worry if your powers are waning, she had sub written all over her, surely it won’t be that hard?”

Again John was at a complete loss as to just what was going on here, you could cut the tension between these two with a knife, he cleared his throat loudly to break the moment.

“Such a clever boy Sherlock, come see me when you need to scratch that itch dear, and remember, you owe me a favour now beautiful” she sashayed away around the outer edge of the room and disappeared through a concealed black door marked ‘private’.

“Okay, so what the hell was that all about Sherlock? Who is she?”

“Irene Adler, she works here, in a ‘special’ capacity, if you like”

“Erm, still not quite getting it, stop speaking in code for god’s sake, just spell it out”

“She’s a dominatrix John”

“A what now?”

“She’ll smack your bottom if you’ve been a bad little boy, or a good boy, or girl, whatever floats your boat really” he laughed at John’s stunned face.

“And in the interests of full disclosure she’s a lesbian, and she wanted me to work for her a while back, offered me quite a considerable sum of money too… I was still sixteen at the time….

“What the fuck doing…on second thoughts do I really want to know?”

“Probably not…”

“It’s a good job you didn’t need the money though” John laughed, trying to lighten the mood and mask his confusion, and surprise. He could only imagine why Irene would want Sherlock and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to fall down that particular rabbit hole quite yet.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, eyes cast down as he fiddled nervously with the mobile, now in his right hand. He took a steadying breath.

“John…erm…I did need the money, but didn’t want it to be on Irene’s terms, that’s why I turned her down”

“I don’t understand…Your family are fucking loaded, you’re seventeen years old and you take black cabs everywhere and I’ll bet you don’t even know the price of a pint of milk or a loaf of bread Sherlock…”

“I seriously doubt whether my father’s estate would have been happy to fund my drug habit John”

“ What! Fucking hell Sherlock….Oh god….that’s….that explains a lot…shit….er…are you still?....”

So it was worse than just the odd sneaky joint and infinitely more fucked-up.

“Using? No…not for four months now….Do I still consider myself an addict? Yes…”

He let the words sink in, watching John’s face carefully to gauge his reaction, then meekly held out his arm for inspection. John felt numb. Yes, that was the best he could manage. It wasn’t exactly a massive leap from what he already knew, and Sherlock certainly fit the profile, personality wise, and…He stopped, checked himself, aware of the detatched clinical way his train of thought had taken. It felt weird discussing this here, in the middle of the club.

“Come with me” he grasped Sherlock firmly around the wrist, eyes searching the perimeter of the club for the sign, “Loos, this way now, I’m not doing this here and it’s too fucking cold outside”

The men’s room was warm and brightly lit with wide fluorescent strip-lights and back-lit mirrors for the preening patrons. Sherlock backed himself into the far corner between wall and the sinks, the automatic hand dryer burst into life and he flinched and moved closer to John, leaning against the vanity unit, brow furrowed.

“Show me”

John cradled Sherlock’s long thin arm like a delicate piece of china, deathly white, blue veins visible under the surface and only a light smattering of dark hair. He ran a thumb over the crook of his elbow, leaning in and angling the limb towards the light. An intricate pattern of tiny little scars, track marks from a very fine needle, decorated the delicate skin, clearly visible in the glaring artificial light. He sucked in a breath and just stared, waiting for Sherlock to speak. The moment stretched out interminably long.

“That one” Sherlock broke the silence at last, pointing at a mark on his skin, identical in looks to every other, “That scar right there, it nearly ended me….I overdosed in June….not on purpose, you have to believe me John….I just took too much one night, which for me must have been a fucking lot” he gave a harsh mirthless laugh.

John winced.

“You wanted the truth” John nodded silently, looking up into those impossibly beautiful eyes, trying not to imagine them cold and dead and lifeless.

“Mycroft found me, I was under the pear tree in the back garden, it was still warm outside even though it must have been about two, or three in the morning….I have no idea what made him look out of the window that night, but if he hadn’t…..anyway, he stayed with me until the ambulance came, wouldn’t leave the hospital for four days until I stabilised…fucking annoyed the shit out of me in the end”

“So I guess I get why he’s a bit…overprotective”

“He’s like that anyway…that’s just Mycroft”

“I had a horrible feeling your little junkie act this morning was a little too convincing…is that what you were like…before you stopped?”

“Not really, most of the time you wouldn’t notice that I was any different, I was probably nicer than usual, actually”

“Must have cost a fortune”

Sherlock snatched his arm away defensively and cradled it across his chest like the pain was still there, like it still hurt.

“There are ways to get the money if you’re desperate….or you can always find some other way to pay”

John felt as if a cold hard stone had settled in the pit of his stomach, the cool passionless way Sherlock admitted he basically prostituted himself for a fix. He tried in vain to push the bleak, painful image of Sherlock on his knees in some dark, filthy place, degrading himself for drugs. Why the hell would he do that to himself. A cold sheen of sweat prickled on his upper lip, his mouth filling with water. Oh god he was going to puke. He forced himself to take deep calming breaths pulling in through his nose.

“Okay then, he began in a voice trembling with emotion, “maybe tell me more when I’m really fucking drunk, because I’m stone cold sober again now, and I just can’t bear to think about you like that Sherlock….I just can’t. Please tell me that’s’ it now, that there isn’t any more for fuck’s sake”

Sherlock plucked his phone from his pocket and thumbed open the lock screen, placing it on the counter top between them.

“This is where it all started, well, most of it anyway”

John stared at him quizzically, not sure what he was trying to say…was he supposed to look or something? Oh fuck. Irene’s words came back to him in a rush (‘that’s the fifth time in the last five minutes….somebody loves you). It had sounded like a joke, a sarky comment of the type he was sure Irene made all the time, to tease, but what if she had got it right, what if there was someone else?...

“Victor”

“What?...” he shook his head, all stuffed with cotton wool, brain-fog, as clumsy fingers reached for the phone.

“Victor is my ex”

“Well from what I gather, there’s been a fucking lorry load of those, so you might want to narrow it down a bit more please”

The venom in his voice took him by surprise, the tension inside him desperate for release. He was hanging on by a thread here and Sherlock looked like John had physically slapped him with his words. His guts boiled again.

“It finished eighteen months ago, I hadn’t seen or heard from him since….until last night, but I didn’t see the message until we…I…got up”

“You would have been fifteen then right? Some kid from one of the schools you got kicked out of was he?”

He just needed to make sense of this, maybe it wasn’t as bad as he was beginning to fear, maybe he could stop the ice that was slowly rolling through his veins. The silence stretched on too long. It was bad, it was something bad.

“He had just started to work for Mycroft, not long out of uni, he was twenty-one and yes, I was only fifteen, but we didn’t sleep together until my birthday…and then he left, the next day, Mycroft sent him away, to America, and that was it, over”

“Except, it’s not fucking over is it?” John seethed

“And that’s where you went in such a fucking hurry this morning wasn’t it? To see him?”

His voice echoed around the empty space and he sounded vicious and angry to his own ears. Some posh city bloke, not just a kid, not like him, how could he even begin to compete with that? My ex – the only one worthy of that title after fuck knows how many others, the only one to mean something to Sherlock.

His Sherlock.

Oh god, he was going to lose him before he’d even had a chance to tell him – someone else was in love with Sherlock, this Victor bloke, he must still love him right? Why else would he be texting him every five minutes? And Sherlock? He couldn’t just ask…it couldn’t be like this… and what about him? He couldn’t just tell him, not now.

He could feel the panic cresting like a wave, he felt like he was floating, his arms felt weird, like they didn’t belong to him, someone else’s fingers thumbing through a stream of messages (see you soon x / meet me for lunch x / you look incredible x / I can’t stop thinking about you x / I know you still feel it too x / I wanted to kiss you x / I meant what I said x / I love you Sherlock x / I need to see you again x / I know you want this love x / where are you? I’ll come and get you x ) every single one, stabbing like a knife in his chest.

They both jumped as it buzzed once again in his hand – (ditch him and come over – I’ll keep the bed warm xx)

“Fuck you Sherlock!”

He threw the phone across the room where it connected with Sherlock’s hip and landed on the hard tiled floor with a crack. He felt like a fool, a bloody stupid idiot. What if he had said it, before in the club, when it pounded like a pulse in his chest ‘I love you Sherlock’? Would he still feel like this, where every single inch of him hurt like hell?

He would not cry.

HE WOULD NOT CRY.

His eyes burned anyway, gritty and raw when he tried to blink. He whirled around, away from Sherlock’s line of sight and struck out with a clenched fist to punch the wall of the stall, humiliated as a hot angry tear escaped down his face. A bone cracked in his hand, but he registered no pain. The door snapped back on its hinges, buckling as one of the short metal screws sheared off with the force of the blow and clattered to the floor, the entire row rattling and shaking. The door back to club opened with a wave of sound and music, and closed again quickly, scared away by the scene unfolding within.

“John…don’t..please…Its not….I’m not…..”

He held up a hand to cut him off, not ready to hear another damn word of this.

“Oh god…I can’t think…I need to…just….sort it Sherlock….sort it now…I have to go” he pointed vaguely in the direction of the door, he needed some air, another drink, some breathing space.

 And Sherlock looked terrified, like he was scared of him, like he was going to pass out or something, and if he didn’t then John probably would.

He staggered back out like a drunken man, grateful for the wall of sound which muffled the screaming thoughts in his head. I can’t lose him, I just can’t, I need him. Make it right Sherlock, please make it right.

The bar was still busy, as he fumbled around for some cash, a double or treble something or other, anything would do, the vodka shots in the flat seemed a world away.

“You look like a man in need of a very stiff drink”

A soft velvet voice chimed in his ear and a soft warm hand rested lightly on his arm, the sweet smell of jasmine scenting the air around him.

“Come with me”

He let himself be led, steered across the room to a barely visible black door marked ‘private’, down a short dimly lit passage to a large sumptuous room all blood red velvet and ebony leather where he sat down heavily on a long black sofa, sinking into soft upholstery, suddenly feeling very small and young. Irene filled two cut-glass tumblers from a crystal decanter with rich amber liquid, pressing one into John’s shaking fingers.

“Drink up, you’ll feel much better I promise”

“I doubt it” his voice sounded hollow and flat, drained of emotion, but he took the drink and sipped, fire cutting through the ice, sensation coursing back through his aching limbs. They sat for a while, in silence, just drinking slowly, Irene rising to refill his glass as it emptied. Finally she broke the silence.

“You had a row with Sherlock, I can see, he has that effect on people”

“Not on me”

“Yes, I noticed that earlier darling, you’ve made quite the impression, believe me…our Sherlock doesn’t ‘do’ the whole ‘intimacy’ thing, not as long as I’ve known him anyway, much more the ‘fuck and run’ type, impossible to pin down”

“And you know him well?”

“As well as anyone can know Sherlock Holmes I suppose, such a beautiful boy, but he keeps it all locked away inside. But he won’t be tamed, and why would anyone want to try? He’s exquisite, one of a kind, it’s no wonder you’ve fallen for him darling”

“Is it that obvious?”

“It’s my job to know what people want, and you want Sherlock Holmes….and he wants you too, just in case you were wondering”

“But there’s this bloke…Victor… he wants Sherlock back” the name felt sour in his mouth.

“Oh, I know all about Mr Victor Trevor dear, and if Sherlock was even remotely interested I’m sure he would be with him right now, not here with you, so drink up and go kiss that gorgeous mouth” .

She was right, he had to go back and face this. He dragged himself up from the sofa, arse numb from sitting so long, rolling his shoulders as he prepared to leave.

“Before you go darling, do tell Sherlock to be careful, won’t you? People have noticed, the wrong people, that he’s been asking questions…I would hate to see him get hurt…and they would hurt him you know, in a heartbeat."

He had almost forgotten the real reason they came here, he should find Sherlock and go, quickly, before the crowds thinned out and someone recognised his face. He would say sorry. Maybe he had overreacted? Caught unawares by the churning swell of emotion, things he had never felt for anyone before. Wanting to be near him all the time, the ache in his chest the instant he was out of sight, like a piece missing, a Sherlock shaped hole.

He made his way back to the men’s room and pushed open the door to see the evidence of his violent outburst still swaying on buckled hinges, two drag queens in long sequinned gowns sharing a lipstick by the mirrors, stared at him curiously, he must look a fucking mess, he knew. He cast his eyes up and down the row of empty stalls.

No Sherlock.

Back out in the club people were starting to leave in small groups of two and three, the crowds finally thinning. He paced the perimeter, heart clenching at every glimpse of dark hair and curls, none of them him. Outside in the cold night air he paced back and forth, unable to quell the rising tide of dread, firing off message after message:

(where are you / I’m sorry I shouted / I’m still here, outside now / Sherlock please talk to me / this isn’t funny, where are you? / are you okay? / just let me know you’re okay x)

He waited until that last few stragglers staggered out into the night and the lights within went black, until the metal shutters screeched down over the doors and windows, and the bar staff plodded wearily home, until only the threat of hypothermia compelled him to move.

Sherlock was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so, so sorry - that one really hurt - ouch!
> 
> A couple of things to explain:  
> \- 'Twocking' means 'take without owners consent' so basically stealing/thieving etc  
> \- Powerhouse is a real gay night-club, in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne (There might be one in London but I don't know)  
> \- Ditto 'Tiger Tiger' - it is awful I have been there (and if it really is a reference to the William Blake poem then they really should rot in hell)  
> -'The Codfather' is a genuine chip shop in my local town, needless to say I will never set foot in the place.  
> \- After a Great British Pub Crawl it is mandatory to enter a fish & chip shop whether you are hungry or not and buy a portion of greasy fat chips, if you are from 'up North' you have to have gravy or curry sauce over the top - it is the law!


End file.
